


leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)

by OllieoftheBeholder



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Eventual Happy Ending, Gun Violence (mentioned), Implied/Referenced Ableism, Implied/Referenced Bigotry, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Racism, Implied/Referenced Xenophobia, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Needs a Hug, M/M, Martin Blackwood Needs a Hug, Mild Eye Horror (mentioned), Misuse of Beholding Avatar Powers (The Magnus Archives), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Smoking, Spoilers for The Magnus Archives Season 5, Substitutiary Locofiction: the Ancient and Mystic Art of Telling Canon to Get Fucked, Tea as a love language, Time Travel Fix-It, at least a little bit, canon-typical fear, he does have the decency to feel guilty about it though, in which I project myself onto the characters like I'm a neighborhood drive-in movie, past emotional abuse, there is a reason Gertrude Robinson thought Sasha James would be the next Archivist, tim stoker is a good friend
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 133,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27868370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OllieoftheBeholder/pseuds/OllieoftheBeholder
Summary: “So...you’re from the future. In the past. Why?”“You want the short answer or the long one?”“Short,” Martin says after a moment’s deliberation. “Until I decide if I trust you.”The other nods, as if he expected that answer—which, well, if he reallyisMartin from the future, he probably did. “To stop the world from ending.”They have one last chance to fix this - one last chance to prevent the Eyepocalypse, to save the world - to savetheirworld. It all hinges on which is the greater force: greed...or love.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 1019
Kudos: 556
Collections: Dodo’s Archive





	1. Martin

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone who read my Whumptober fics - particularly those of you who read Still Lies the Midnight, and those fewer of you (evidently) who read All the Million Hours - this is that longer fic I was teasing. I wanted to have a good buildup of chapters before I started posting, and I also wanted to wait until we were at the far side of NaNoWriMo so that I could _keep_ that buildup. The fact that that meant starting to post after the Act II finale was honestly a bonus. Hope this is worth the wait.
> 
> Title is from "All the Wasted Time" from the musical _Parade,_ which is such a JonMartin song that it overcomes my usual dislike for putting songs from musicals on OTP playlists (I'm usually iffy on them because they usually only work if you remove them from context, but...well, ask me about this one if you really want to know).

It’s been six weeks now that Martin’s been living in the Archives, and he’s beginning to feel like he’s going a bit mad.

In the first place, it’s really hard to separate work and personal life when they’re both conducted in the same space, and even though he tries to keep from doing work in the area he’s been sleeping in, it still creeps in. He’ll do anything for Jon, of course—not that he’ll admit that out loud—but it does get a bit wearing, being on the job, so to speak, all the time.

In the second place, there’s the paranoia. The worms are real and present. They’re outside the Institute, and apparently just about everyone has seen them by now, but they’re inside, too, or at least in the Archives. It’s been a while since Jon rolled his eyes or Sasha got that _I am being tactful_ look on her face when Martin suspects he sees one, because they’ve _all_ seen them and gone after them. The trouble is that knowing the worms _are_ getting inside, that he’s not just jumping at shadows, makes his nerves worse, not better. He tries not to bring it up so much to the others unless he has proof, but he’s getting twitchier by the day and it’s getting harder and harder to sleep.

In the third place, he’s apparently getting forgetful. It’s something he’s really only noticed in the last week, but Tim and Sasha will bring something up, ask him about something they wanted him to look up or reference a previous conversation, and then act confused when he doesn’t know what they’re talking about. He’d think they’re gaslighting him if they were the type to do that, but as much as Tim likes to tease, he’s not _malicious_ about it. And Sasha banters, but doesn’t tease, not like that. Which means he’s losing moments and chunks of time. He supposes he should just be thankful he hasn’t forgotten anything Jon’s asked of him yet, or at least that Jon hasn’t brought it up if he has.

It’s probably from lack of sleep, which tells Martin he should definitely be getting more of it, but it’s hard. Partly it’s the worrying about the worms and partly it’s the fact that he’s got this persistent feeling of being _watched,_ but if he’s honest, a lot of it also has to do with the fact that he worries about Jon. The man doesn’t take care of himself, he looks positively exhausted some days, and he hasn’t snapped at Martin in almost two weeks, a new record. Martin wants to wrap Jon in a blanket and hold him until he gets some _rest_ already, but that desire sends his mind down paths he’s trying to keep it from wandering, thank you very much. Still, Martin’s not sleeping much either and it’s probably affecting his memory. Still worrying, though.

He sighs heavily and turns over on the cot, like he’s trying to get comfortable. He already _is_ comfortable, at least physically. It’s his mind that’s uneasy, that won’t rest.

Finally, he gives up. Maybe if he gets up and does a quick circuit of the Archives, just to _assure_ himself there aren’t any worms, he’ll feel better. And if all else fails, he can busy himself with quietly removing staples from documents so they’ll be in better condition years down the line. He gets where Jon is coming from, wanting them all to be together, but come on, even _Martin_ knows you’re not supposed to do that.

He climbs out of the cot, replaces his glasses, and pulls on his trousers; no one else is supposed to be there, but it’d be just his luck if Jon stayed late or passed out at his desk or something. Or worse, _Tim’s_ still around, ready to make a cheeky comment about his choice of sleepwear. He slips the torch into one pocket and the corkscrew into the other, picks up the fire extinguisher he keeps with him at all times now, and heads out barefoot into the Archives.

It’s—there’s no other word for it— _spooky_ at night, with no one else around. The emergency lights stay on all the time, sporadic lights that don’t so much illuminate as give texture to the darkness. You can see your way around, but if you want to do any serious work you’ll need to either turn on a regular light or use a torch. Martin’s at the point where he trusts _anything_ about the Institute about as far as he can see it, including the electricity, hence why he always carries the torch with him. Also, he’s discovered that this emergency lighting isn’t all over the Institute, not that he plans on venturing out of the Archives tonight. This is just a quick tour to reassure himself that his sleep will be worm-free, so that maybe he can _get_ some.

He’s a few steps away from one of the empty offices, its lights dark—no emergency lighting in there—when he hears a sound from a nearby aisle and freezes. Someone—or _something—_ is in the Archives.

Oddly enough, the fact that it sounds too big to be a worm is _not_ reassuring.

Martin’s not stupid, far from it. He’s read the statements, and he’s also got a secret, rarely-indulged fondness for Gothic horror that dates back to his discovery of Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s _Christabel_. He knows that going towards the sound and calling out a questioning _hello_ is asking for trouble. He’ll end up with all the blood drained out of him, or fed to a giant monster, or with some creep wearing his face like a mask.

On the other hand, what can he actually do? He doesn’t have his cell phone anymore, didn’t grab his laptop before bolting out of his flat, and the only phone in the Archives is in Jon’s office. Martin doesn’t even know if it’s a real phone or if it’s just a fancy-looking intercom system. If he retreats back to the room he’s been staying in and hides under the blankets, it won’t stop whatever is in there from coming after him if it wants to, plus he’ll be trapped. At least out here he can, in theory, get away if it attacks.

Plus...he’s too damned curious, he supposes. _Not_ knowing bothers him almost as much as the risks of finding out.

He takes a deep breath, slips his hand into his pocket to reassure himself the corkscrew is there just in case, and steps around the shelves.

“Hey!” he calls, and then yelps in surprise.

Standing a few yards away down the aisle is _him._

The other person doesn’t just look a lot like him. It _is_ him. Same height, same build, same coloring. Same messy mop of hair that needs a cut, never mind a comb. Same bags under the eyes. Hell, he’s even wearing the same damn sweater Martin is, the one he refuses to admit out loud why he likes to wear so often. And he’s looking at Martin with the same startled expression on his face that Martin must have on his own.

Then the other Martin sighs and closes his eyes, his shoulders slumping, and suddenly he looks... _old._ Tired for more reasons than just a simple lack of sleep. “Christ. You’re the _one_ person I was trying to avoid. Couldn’t sleep, could you?”

“Wh-who are you? _What_ are you?” Martin demands, aware that his voice is creeping towards a higher register. “I-I’ve got a knife!”

The other looks up again. “Really? You haven’t switched to the corkscrew yet?”

“Th—what?”

“Corkscrew,” the other repeats. “It works better on the worms than a knife would. They go straight in, more or less, and they don’t move quickly, so you can...pull them out with it easier. If you need to.”

Martin’s fingers tighten around the corkscrew’s handle, unsettled at hearing his logic spilling from another’s mouth, especially a mouth that matches his own. “How—how do you know about the corkscrew? Or the worms?”

The other’s lips twitch in a smile that doesn’t have a lot of amusement in it. “I’m you from the future.”

Martin blinks. _“Shut up._ ”

“No, honest.”

“You expect me to believe in time travel.”

The other actually laughs. It sounds like the way Martin laughs when he’s not so much amused at what’s happening or what’s been said as at his own reaction to it. “Honestly? _I_ didn’t completely believe in time travel until I woke up here in the Archives and heard Tim’s voice.”

There’s something a bit wistful in the other’s voice that, weirdly enough, makes Martin believe him a little bit. Not completely, but a little bit. On the other hand, the fact that the other claims to have known he was in the past because he heard Tim’s voice is...probably not good. Martin decides he’s not quite ready to know that yet. “So...you’re from the future. In the past. Why?”

“You want the short answer or the long one?”

“Short,” Martin says after a moment’s deliberation. “Until I decide if I trust you.”

The other nods, as if he expected that answer—which, well, if he really _is_ Martin from the future, he probably did. “To stop the world from ending.”

Martin gives a short bark of incredulous laughter. “So—so are you saying you’re here to prevent nuclear warfare, o-or climate change, or are we talking biblical Armageddon with angels and demons and seven years of darkness?”

“The last one’s the closest, really,” the other says seriously. “No demons or angels, though. Not the traditional type, anyway. And I can’t really say how many years of darkness we’ve had. Time hasn’t meant all that much since it ended.”

“Wait, wait. You’re saying the world _already_ ended. Will end. In my lifetime. And I’ll...survive it, somehow?”

The other’s gaze is...disconcerting, to say the least. It’s like he’s seeing _through_ Martin, looking not at him but at a fixed point in his life. “Not _your_ lifetime. That’s what we’re here to stop. Maybe it’s better to say I’m from _a_ future, but not yours.” He smiles faintly. “I never met myself, so we’ve already changed that much, at least.”

_We,_ Martin notes. Not _I._ That’s not terrifying at all. He decides that most questions can wait until he’s sure he actually believes the other, though. “What are you planning to do to stop it?”

The other hesitates. “That’s...there’s not really a short answer to that one, and it won’t make much sense without the long answer to the other.”

“F-fine. Fine. What can _I_ do to help you prevent the world from ending?”

“Keep Jon safe.” The other speaks with an intensity and gravity that settles into Martin’s bones, pinning him to the ground with the weight of it. “Don’t let him get hurt.”

“He gets hurt?” Martin’s voice goes slightly shrill for a moment. His growing feelings for Jon are a tightly-kept secret, or at least he wants them to be—Tim’s probably figured it out, he seems to figure out everything else—but the mere idea of Jon being hurt sends him into a minor panic. A small, more rational part of him wonders if this is proof that the other _isn’t_ him, that he isn’t panicking at the thought.

“Not if you can help it,” the other says. “I—I can’t go into too many details. Not right now. You’re—you’re probably safe, whatever you know, but I can’t be certain, and it’s a lot to risk at the moment. Just...trust me. Keep Jon safe. Don’t _hover,_ ” he adds hastily, as if he knows how likely it is that Martin’s going to do exactly that, “but just...keep a sharp eye out for worms. And spiders.”

“Spiders aren’t dangerous.” Martin narrows his eyes at the other as another tendril of doubt curls through him. “Not all of them. Not inherently.”

“No, not spiders themselves,” the other agrees. “But...well. Let’s just say Jon has his reasons for being afraid of them, and they’re...very valid. Spiders won’t _hurt_ him, exactly, but they’re liable to be a sign that something that _will_ hurt him very nearby.”

“The worms. Am I in danger?”

Again the other hesitates. “Not tonight. Not...Jane Prentiss knows where you live, so she toyed with you, set you off-balance as a warning to the others. It’s why you can’t go home. But she only knows because she followed you back from that basement. You’re not what she’s after. She won’t attack the Institute while you’re sleeping.”

Martin stares. “That’s...not as comforting as you might think.”

“No,” the other says, with an odd sort of smile and laugh, as if at a private joke Martin doesn’t get. “No, I guess not.”

Martin bites his lip, then asks the only question he feels like he _can_ ask. “How can I trust you? How can I know you’re...really me from the future?”

The other tilts his head, as if considering that question from all angles. Martin knows it’s not a fair question. He can’t really expect the other to tell him something that happens in the future and then just...wait around until it happens. Especially since now it might _not_ happen, if the other has already changed things. The thought gives him a slight headache.

Finally, the other says, “You should tell Jon the truth.”

Martin’s heart rate accelerates dramatically. _Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no._ “A-about what?”

“About your CV. That you lied to get the job. Tell him, first thing tomorrow.”

That’s not what Martin was afraid the other was going to suggest telling the truth about, but it doesn’t noticeably calm him, either. “He’ll kill me! Or worse, fire me!”

“He can’t.” The other speaks with the weirdest mix of authority and sadness Martin’s ever heard. “At least, he can’t fire you, any more than you can quit. And he won’t kill you. Anyway, better for it to come out now than...the way it eventually came out for me. Trust me.”

Martin swallows, hard. In the grand scheme of things, it’s not _that_ big a deal, really. Anyway, he’s been at the Institute for eleven years now, so it’s not like he doesn’t have _some_ qualifications by now. Isn’t university just supposed to be a shortcut to experience? “A-all right. I’ll talk to him tomorrow. And if he doesn’t completely lose his mind, I’ll...be back to talk to you tomorrow night. I’m living here right now.”

“I know. It’s been...what, a month?”

“Six weeks and a bit.”

“So it’s the end of April,” the other mumbles, more to himself than anything. “Plenty of time then. I can hold off a bit longer.”

Martin’s nerves can’t take much more of this. “I’m—I’m going to go—lie down.”

The other’s gaze flicks back to his face. “Go ahead. I promise you’ll be safe.”

It shouldn’t be comforting, to hear that from a stranger wearing his face, his _skin._ But to Martin’s mild surprise, when he gets into the cot and pulls the blanket up over his shoulders, he falls asleep almost right away.


	2. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin makes a confession. Jon does not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad everyone is enjoying this so far! Hope it continues to live up to how it started...

“Tea, Jon?”

Jon looks up from the paperwork he’s studying to see Martin hovering in the doorway, mug in hands and looking even jumpier and more uncertain than usual. The thought of _what did he mess up this time_ intersects with _did something happen last night_ and means Jon isn’t sure what his expression is doing. He scans Martin’s face, looking for clues to what he might need to be worrying about. _If_ he needs to be worrying, or worrying more than usual. He tries to hide it around the office, but he _is_ concerned about Martin’s comfort and safety. He’s begun leaving less and less and it has very little to do with thinking he, personally, might be in danger (although the idea of Jane Prentiss following him home is not a pleasant one) and more to do with worrying about Martin being in the Archives alone. He says he’s fine, and for the most part seems normal, except the nerves, but Jon can’t help but be concerned. Especially since he’s still carrying a lingering sense of guilt from Martin’s reasoning for being in that basement in the first place. That he felt he needed to prove something to Jon…

Martin’s eyebrows draw together, just slightly, and the worry in his eyes amps up a bit, and Jon realizes abruptly that he’s waiting for an answer to his question. “Oh—ah—thank you, Martin. I appreciate that.”

Martin smiles, just a little, and comes over to set the mug on Jon’s desk. It’s sort of part of the ritual at this point. Usually, Jon is busy, so Martin brings him a cup of tea and sets it on the corner of his desk until he has time to drink it.

Today, though, he’s more or less at a stopping point, and he notices that Martin’s hand is shaking slightly, enough to set the tea sloshing in the cup.

“Here, careful, you’ll spill that in a moment.” Jon reaches up with both hands to take the mug from Martin, then sets it on the desk and studies his assistant. “Are you all right?”

“Fine! Fine, I’m fine, I’m—I’m fine.” Martin swallows. He has never looked less _fine_ to Jon. “It’s just—I’m just—I’m fine.”

“Martin,” Jon says carefully. He rifles through several possible options. It could be lack of sleep making Martin shaky. It could be low blood sugar. It could be he _has_ actually done something wrong with regards to his work and he’s afraid Jon will yell at him. It could be he opened the door and managed to let another animal in. It could just be the general atmosphere of the Archives getting to him. Jon doesn’t feel like playing Twenty Questions right then when a single direct one will suffice. “What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing, it’s just…” Martin worries at his lip for a moment. “I—I need to tell you something.”

“Go ahead.” Jon is still struggling for the balance between his natural personality and the front he put on when he was first appointed to his position—the one he meant to be professional and responsible but turned out more like _grouchy asshole—_ and he’s not sure if his tone of voice comes out right or not.

Martin doesn’t say anything for a moment, and Jon is about to prompt him again when he suddenly blurts out, “I lied.”

Jon stills. He normally has to stop himself from fidgeting—twirling a pen in his fingers, worrying at the cuffs of his shirts, picking at scabs—constant small, nigh-unnoticeable movements that he does without even thinking about and fights any time there is another person present in his office. But at those two words, his entire body seems to seize up. His mind instantly goes to the statement he recorded, the one where he talked about being held hostage in his home for two weeks by what they all believe to be Jane Prentiss. If he lied about that…

No. No, it can’t be that. The worms _are_ real and they _are_ stalking the Institute. Sasha’s encounter with the being calling itself Michael lends more weight to Martin’s statement as well. And surely Martin wouldn’t still be staying in the Archives if he honestly didn’t have to. No story is worth selling that hard. But Jon can’t think of anything else Martin might have said lately that he would feel the need to confess to lying about, unless…

Jon suddenly realizes that Martin has continued talking and he has heard none of it. He holds up a hand to stop him. “Wait. Start over. You _what?_ ”

“Lied on my CV,” Martin repeats, and Jon becomes aware that his heart stopped only when it begins to beat again. “I don’t have a master’s in parapsychology. I don’t even have a degree. When I was seventeen, my mum was—she started getting sick, and I had to drop out of school and get a job. We needed the money. Nobody would hire me, and I started getting desperate, so—so I started lying on my applications. I got the interview with Elias and he hired me, but I don’t actually have the credentials I said I did. Most of my employment details are made up. I’m only twenty-eight.”

Martin says all of this in a rush, then falls silent, watching him nervously. Jon suspects that a proper boss would be irritated at best, angry at worst. That he ought to fire Martin immediately for dishonesty, or report him to Elias.

He doesn’t. He _can’t._ In the first place, the thought of actually firing anyone makes his stomach turn, and he always feels uncomfortable in Elias’s office, like a child being punished for something he can’t quite figure out what he did wrong. In the second place, he doesn’t want to fire _Martin_ specifically, and right now he refuses to examine why.

Besides…there’s something impressive about a seventeen-year-old, even one over six feet tall, walking in off the street claiming to have a master’s degree in a relatively obscure and highly specialized subject and managing to sell it. And Martin’s been here eleven years now, which means that not only has he proven competent enough not to be fired before now, he’s gained enough experience to match the rest of them. Maybe even surpass them. Jon is conscious of a slight feeling of inadequacy, his own degree be damned.

He clears his throat. “Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

“Because I thought you’d fire me?” Martin’s voice drifts to a slightly higher register, as it often does when he’s nervous.

No, not nervous. _Scared._ Martin is genuinely scared of what Jon might say or do to him. Jon finds himself instinctively wanting to get up and wrap Martin in a hug, which scares _him._ It’s another feeling he has no idea what to do with, or where it came from, and so tries to ruthlessly pack it away but only succeeds in shoving it into a mental cupboard like a child who spent the day reading instead of tidying his room like he promised and is now desperately trying to hide the mess before some grown-up comes in to inspect. It’s going to come tumbling out the minute someone touches the handle and he will still not have any idea how to deal with it other than panicked denial of having put it there in the first place.

“I’m not going to fire you,” he says instead, wrapping his hands around his mug of tea for something to do with them. It’s the same mug Martin always brings him tea in, the bone china one printed all over with cats, and Jon’s never been able to figure out how Martin knows he’s a cat person, since he’s never mentioned it and doesn’t own one at the moment. “Good Lord, Martin, you’ve been here eleven years. I think you know your way around the paranormal by now. If you’d told me you didn’t have the experience in academia…well, it certainly would have explained more than a few things.”

Martin’s cheeks turn pink, and he looks down at his shoes. “I know I’m not all that good at the job.”

“You’re…not up to the standards I’d expect from someone with eleven years’ experience _and_ a master’s degree, certainly,” Jon says. He tries to moderate his tone so he doesn’t sound like he’s scolding. He isn’t. “But if I’d known you didn’t have that degree…I would have judged you a lot less harshly. You _are_ a very good researcher, Sasha was right when she said that.”

The blush on Martin’s cheeks deepens, and he mumbles something that might be thanks. Jon decides to take it as such, and also takes a sip of tea to try and cut through the tangle of emotions inside him.

“Ask for help,” he says when he can trust himself to speak again. “If you need it. Tim and Sasha have the experience with academia you don’t, they’ll be more than happy to help you. And…if you’d rather do more of the filing and cataloging duties, the parts that are more like what you would have done in the library, than the researching…”

“I don’t mind researching. I really enjoy it. I just—I don’t always know what I’m doing, and I’m sorry. You’re right. I should have told you that a long time ago.” Martin takes a deep breath. “I—I’ll ask. I will. Thank you. And I’m sorry again.”

“Stop apologizing, Martin.” Jon realizes his tone might have come out a bit harsh and forces himself to soften his voice. “What’s done is done. But…yes. You’re still looking into Tom Haan, correct?”

“I—y-yeah, yeah.”

“Get Tim to help you with that. In fact, have him handle it today. I’d like you to go through the Archives for me and see if you can find anything that seems…relevant to our current situation.” Jon doesn’t know why the thought pops into his head, but it occurs to him that there might be more to the Jane Prentiss situation than he knows, that perhaps Martin can find something relevant. He has faith that if anyone can find it, it’s Martin, and he’s not sure where that certainty comes from. “Perhaps you can do the stapling for Sasha, if you have time?”

Martin hesitates. “Ah—is this a good time to tell you that you’re really not supposed to do that?”

“What, stapling?” Jon frowns.

“Yeah, you—I mean, if they were _brass_ staples, maybe, or the Morel stainless steel ones, but the regular ones? They rust, you know? You’re not supposed to use metals that rust on documents you’re planning to keep permanently. It ruins them. I know you’re trying to record the statements and all, but especially the ones we have to do on the tapes, magnetic files can be corrupted…” Martin trails off, and he’s blushing harder than before.

Jon blinks at him. “I—I didn’t know that. Thank you, Martin, that’s…that’s helpful.”

He offers Martin a small smile, and Martin’s face turns so red Jon worries his hair might actually catch fire. “N-no problem. It’s—I mean, I’ve kind of been going around at night and taking the staples out sometimes, b-but I found a couple plastic paper clips in one of the drawers and I replaced them with those, so…”

“I’ll see about ordering some brass staples,” Jon promises. “I had no idea there were other kinds that weren’t meant for upholstery or surgery or some such. And—thank you again.”

Martin nods quickly. “I’ll go…see what I can find. And thank you. For—for not being mad at me.”

Jon gives a soft huff of laughter. “To tell the truth, Martin, I’m actually rather relieved.”

Martin offers Jon a shy smile, then backs out of his office, still blushing furiously. Jon takes another sip of his tea. It’s made, as usual, exactly the way he likes it.

He silences the part of him that wonders if that was how he liked it _before_ Martin started making it that way and gets back to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do have a plan for how this story is going to end up. We'll see if it behaves itself.


	3. Martin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin has a conversation with himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title, with all due respect to Rick Riordan: Martin Protects Himself By Telling Himself Absolutely Nothing. Thanks, Self.
> 
> Bless everyone who's commented and read so far! I'm glad y'all are enjoying reading this as much as I'm enjoying writing this.

Martin waits until everyone leaves the Archives that night. Then he waits a bit longer, just to be certain they’re gone. Then he wastes a little more time telling himself not to be stupid.

Then he sighs, pockets torch and corkscrew, and ventures into the Archives to find himself.

It’s surprisingly easy. His double, or alter ego, or future self, or… _whatever_ the right term is for him, is waiting for him in one of the reading nooks, seated in a comfortable armchair, hands folded around a mug of tea. He turns his head as Martin approaches and smiles, a tired sort of smile. “Still here, then. How’d he take it?”

Martin eyes the other (it’s easier to think of him that way for now). He seems relaxed, mostly, but there’s a kind of tension to him, like he’s waiting for another shoe to drop. And his hands—Martin probably wouldn’t notice if his own hadn’t done the same earlier—are trembling, ever so faintly. He’s either tired or stressed or scared, or some combination of the three. Martin suddenly feels bad for adding to that, in whatever way he did.

“How’d he take it when _you_ told him?” he parries, taking a cautious seat in the armchair across from the other. He notices another mug of tea sitting on the small table between them. “Is that for me?”

“Thought we could both use some. It’s that peppermint-chamomile blend nobody admits they drink, so it shouldn’t keep you up all night.”

Martin picks up the cup, feeling its warmth soak into his palms. Just the smell is calming, sort of. “You didn’t answer my first question.”

“He…smiled,” the other says slowly. “I was a bit worried about him, to be honest. Thought he’d gone off his rocker. But…well, he was a bit paranoid at the time. Things were—it was bad. Not as bad as it got later, but still…bad. He’d gotten convinced one of us might have been trying to kill him, or might have killed Gertrude Robinson—long story why he believed that, I really can’t tell you just yet—and then he found part of a letter I’d written to Mum in the document storage room, after I’d moved back out, talking about not wanting the others to find out the truth. Combined with the fact that he’d just finished reading a statement from Trevor Herbert—you know, the vampire hunter? Apparently he _didn’t_ actually die after giving his first one—and he sort of overreacted. Then I told him the only thing I’d been lying about was my job history, and he could relax. Said he was honestly rather relieved.”

Martin nearly chokes on the sip of tea he’s just taken. Setting it down on the table, he takes a moment to clear his throat, then says in as neutral a voice as he can, “He said the same thing to me. At the end. He wasn’t…mad or anything. Just told me to ask for help if I need it. And then he had me spend the rest of the day on filing. Wants me to look for statements that…might help with the current situation?”

He’s not sure why that comes out as a question. The other gives a thoughtful hum. “There are a few out there. Jane Prentiss made a statement in…let me think, 2014? It’s been a while since I listened to it. And I honestly don’t know exactly where it is in here.”

“Yeah, things are pretty out of order. Jon can’t figure out why Gertrude just shoved things wherever.”

“Ah—that’s a—”

“Don’t tell me. It’s a long story,” Martin says, a bit sourly.

“I know, you’re getting tired of hearing that,” the other says, sounding apologetic. “It really is, though. And…this isn’t the best place or time to tell it.”

“Why _not?_ ” Martin knows he sounds like a petulant toddler, but he feels like he’s being treated like one. “What’s the big deal?”

“I’m—waiting for someone else. Once they get here, we’ll tell you— _all_ of you—but really, this is…they explain it better than I do. And they know how to keep you all safe once you know it. I don’t. There’s only so much I can tell you without putting you at risk, and frankly putting our whole plan to save the world in jeopardy. And I’m sorry, I _know_ how much you hate feeling like you’re being…brushed off or kept in the dark or whatever, but I’m not doing this for fun. For right now, just know that Gertrude had her reasons, and they were…I’m not going to say they were valid, because I’m not sure it would have made a difference if she _had_ organized the Archives properly, but I’m not sure they didn’t at least slow things down a bit.” The other takes a deep breath. “We’ll tell you everything as soon as we can. Promise.”

“When is…this someone else supposed to get here?” Martin asks. The speech took a bit of the wind out of him, actually.

“Soon, I hope. We’re…relying on someone else for transportation, shall we say, and we were warned it would be unreliable. Problem is, I don’t know if we came through at the same time but in different places, or if we’ll come through in the same place but at different times.”

“And you don’t have a way of communicating with one another?”

The other hesitates again. “Not…really. They can find me, though. In theory, anyway. They always could before. And if they can’t, well, we both know the plan, and it involves the Archives, so they’ll be heading this way anyway. I just…don’t know for sure.”

Martin bites his lip. “Is it—look, what if you came through the same place at different times, but they got here first? Would they have…”

“They’d have found me by now. I’d bump into them trawling through the Archives after you’re _supposed_ to be sleeping.” A familiar dimple winks in the other’s cheek as he smiles, if only for a second. “Trust me. I know it’s hard to believe, but they wouldn’t have just…left me. Wherever they are, if they’ve come through somewhere else, they’re looking for me.”

Martin tries not to be skeptical, but he can’t help but think that whoever this someone else is, they must be someone he hasn’t met yet. Even Tim or Sasha, if they came back in time with him to fix something, would immediately apply themselves to solving the problem rather than waste time worrying about where _he_ might be. Unless something changes drastically between now and whenever his counterpart came back—you know, besides the _end of the world—_ he very much doubts they ever would. He wants to ask when he meets this person, but decides against it. The fact that his counterpart has changed the timeline means that now he might _not_ meet that person, and that’s a bit of a depressing thought. That saving the world might come at the cost of Martin being that important to someone.

It’s worth it, but it’s still a bit depressing.

“Would they have looked for you before?” The question slips out before he can stop it, and he wants to bite his tongue in half, then decides, to hell with it. He might as well press on. “Before the end of the world, I mean.”

“Not only _would_ they,” the other says, quietly but with steel in his voice, “but they _did._ They found out I was heading into a dangerous situation and practically moved heaven and earth to find me and bring me back safely. Almost literally. So when I say I know they’re coming, I _know._ I’m more certain of that than I’ve ever been of anything else in my life.”

“And you’re not…worried about them?”

“Constantly. Just like I’m sure they worry about me. But I know they won’t give up on me, any more than I’ll ever give up on them. They’ll find me.”

“Why don’t you go find them?” Martin asks. If whatever plan they have involves them needing to be together…

The other shakes his head slowly. “If they’re going to come out at the same place but not the same time, I’ll just be wasting time I could be using to lay the groundwork here. And if they’re already on the way from wherever they ended up…what if we miss one another? I’m not adding to their worries more than I have to.”

Martin desperately wants to change the subject now. He can hear the strain in the other’s voice, but more than that, he hears the undercurrent of real, genuine love. He and…whoever else is coming back…have a deep bond, nigh-unshakable, and Martin wants that, _longs_ for it. And it kills him knowing that he’s likely not going to get it. He’s sure he’ll never meet this person now.

“So,” he says finally. “Until they get here…what _can_ you tell me?”

The other takes a slow, thoughtful sip of his tea. “I can tell you that you’re in danger.”

“But you said—”

“Oh, not from the worms. Not really. It’s the Archives. The Institute.”

The other pauses. For a long moment there’s no sound but the usual noises of an old building settling for the evening and the gentle susurration of the climate control system. Martin sips at the tea, feels the herbs curl gently into his stomach, and wonders how much anxiety is going to surge past the soothing mint and chamomile as soon as his older counterpart starts talking again. That the Institute is creepy isn’t really news to him, but _dangerous?_

“There are…forces in this world you know nothing about,” the other says at last. “Powerful beings. They thrive on fear. They _are_ fear. And one of them was behind the founding of the Institute.”

“And it’ll—do what? Hurt me? Control me?”

“Not…really? Not on purpose, anyway. It’s fond of you.”

Martin supposes that makes sense. A being that thrives on fear? He must be a veritable feast. Especially right now. It’s probably fond of him the way a glutton might be fond of a smorgasbord, or at least a cheeseboard if anxiety doesn’t quite have the same level of sustenance as fear. For a wild moment, he considers asking, then decides in favor of listening silently to the other continue.

“But these beings have…I don’t even really know what to call them. Servants? Worshipers? Devotees? We used to call some of them _avatars,_ but that’s not really accurate. There are people who come under their power, willingly or unwillingly, and some of them _get_ powers from these things. They don’t lose their free will, for the most part. They still have a degree of autonomy under their powers, although they can be punished, sometimes pretty severely, for doing something too contrary to what their…entity wants, or needs. But…well. There’s at least one person under the—being that founded the Institute’s thrall that doesn’t care if you get hurt or not. Right now, anyway.”

“Right now,” Martin repeats. “And later?”

“Hopefully, you’ll never have to find out what he can do if he _does_ want to hurt you.”

The pain in the other’s voice is palpable, and he looks…lost. Martin’s blood runs cold as he considers the possible interpretations of that. Logically, a fear being that wants to hurt you would make you _more_ afraid, right? But possibly give you a valid reason for that fear, so that you’d be irrationally afraid of seemingly innocuous things later. Like in the Carlos Vittery statement, when he accidentally killed a spider and then fell into the egg sac and was swarmed by them and…

“Hang on,” Martin blurts. “Is there—does one of these fear beings have to do with spiders?”

“Ah—yes, actually. Not the one that runs the Institute, though.”

“Christ, is _that_ why Jon’s so averse to spiders? He ran into that being once? Did it hurt him? Is it still after him?”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down.” The other holds out a hand, palm outward. “Short answers? Yes, yes, not exactly, and sort of. There’s a lot going on there. But that’s why I told you last night to keep an eye out for spiders. They invariably mean something is messing with him. Again.”

Martin exhales heavily. He likes spiders, always has, stemming back to his grandfather reading him _Charlotte’s Web_ every afternoon for two weeks when he was in bed with the chicken pox. A lot of the things he loves—spiders, poetry, cherry preserves, Highland cattle—are things he discovered, or more accurately was _given,_ at his grandfather’s knee. His mother’s father, with whom Martin had spent more time than either of his parents even _before_ his father walked out on them, the man who taught Martin everything from his parents’ native Polish to knitting, who walked with a cane but never showed any difficulty keeping up with his only grandson. Who never told him not to be afraid, but always showed him how to fight back against his fears. His grandfather loved him—is probably the last person who really loved him, if Martin’s being honest—and he still misses him sorely. He’s never admitted to Jon that’s why he gets so defensive about spiders, but now he wonders what Jon would say if he did.

“Did you ever tell him?” he asks, then clarifies when the other gives him an odd look. “Why you like spiders so much. About Granddad and all.”

“A little. Not about the spiders, though. By the time we were close enough to talk about that sort of thing, I understood a little better why he didn’t like them and we avoided the subject if we could.”

Martin wants to ask how long that took, but decides against it. He doesn’t want to force things if it won’t happen that quickly for him, and he also doesn’t want to hold back from trying if he hears that it’s “supposed” to be a while. Let things happen at their own pace, he supposes. That’s all he really can do.

“Hypothetically speaking,” he says slowly, “and not to change the subject, but…how long do you have to stop the world from ending?”

The other puffs out his cheeks and exhales. “Couple years? But it’s…we’re trying to slow the prep work, so to speak. We’re hoping we can stop it altogether. Might only be able to delay the inevitable, but we have to _try._ ”

“Even though you survived the world ending?”

“Especially _because_ we survived the world ending.”

“Did we all survive it?” Martin asks. “Tim? Sasha? Jon?”

There’s a long silence before the other replies, “Everyone who was alive when the world ended continued to be alive after. It’s just that a lot of them wished they weren’t.”

Martin really, really wishes he didn’t ask. And even though he’s burning to know whether any of _them_ regretted being alive past the end of the world, he decides to table that question…for now. The other looks like he’s in real pain, and Martin wouldn’t make that worse even if it wasn’t his own face he’s seeing that look on. Which is still _really_ weird to contemplate.

“So what can I do?” he asks instead.

“I told you. Keep—”

“Keep Jon safe, I know. That’s—you should know you don’t have to actually tell me to do that, really. But I mean…other than that. What can I do to help _you?_ ”

The other pauses. He tilts his head slightly to one side, like he’s listening to something Martin can’t hear, or like he’s studying him, or maybe just like he’s thinking. Finally, he says, “Where are you hiding the fire extinguishers?”

“Everywhere I can.” Martin wonders that the other doesn’t know that, if he was, well, him.

“No, I know that. It’s just…I don’t have my bearings anymore. The Archives…I haven’t been down here in, well, a long time. I don’t remember where everything is off the top of my head. And trying to find things without—” The other stops. “I’m trying _not_ to be seen by any of you, really. Obviously I’m failing, but I’m trying. It’s hard to move around without…making noise or drawing attention. Harder than it used to be, anyway.”

“Oh.” Martin should have guessed that. He thinks for a minute. “I’ll grab you a couple, if you want. Then you can put them somewhere you’ll remember. I’d give you this one, but…”

The other smiles. “Thank you. I do appreciate that. But if you’re asking what you can do to help with the plan…well, you really can help best by keeping Jon safe.”

“Are you going to ever tell me what the plan _is?_ ”

“Eventually. When it’s not just me. It’s—it’s going to take some work. Not as easy as we’d like it to be, and…well, there’s a bit of an additional difficulty now. I don’t know how long it’s going to take us to be ready, or able, to do what needs doing. But we were always planning to bring you all in.”

Martin is bursting with questions, but he tries to tamp it down and be patient. “In that case…want me to fill you in on what we’re working on? Will that help?”

The other’s smile is broad and wistful. “Absolutely. Let’s hear it.”


	4. Jon Prime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the loneliness of distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a deliberate stylistic choice with this chapter and I really hope it lands. Please let me know if it doesn't work.

There was nothing physically wrong with the building, nothing out of place. It bore no signs of having been used recently, although the pantry was well-stocked with non-perishable staples. The air was slightly stale, everything covered in a fine layer of dust, but other than that, it was perfectly put-together and preserved. It was fine.

It still felt _wrong,_ on a bone-deep level that had nothing to do with anything about the building itself, or even what its intended purpose was.

Really, Jon thought distantly, he ought to have expected the door to dump him out here. As much as he’d hoped he would wind up in the Institute, where he desperately needed to be, he’d rather suspected that wouldn’t be the case. And if it wasn’t going to be there, it was going to be somewhere else significant.

He just wished it had been anywhere _but_ Detective Alice “Daisy” Tonner’s safe house in Scotland.

Jon Knew that it was about a six-day walk from the safe house to the Institute, if he didn’t stop. He’d have to, though. Time went on here, and his body would react accordingly. He’d need food, and sleep. He tried not to think about the fact that he’d probably need a statement before long, too. _That_ would have to wait. He couldn’t risk being seen, let alone preying on some poor unsuspecting person. In fact, it would probably be best if he traveled after dark. Hopefully it wasn’t summer and the nights would be a bit longer, he might get farther along before he had to stop. He was looking at a journey of about a week, more than likely two, unless he could hitch a ride for part of the way. If he could find a safe way of doing that.

Time was precious. He knew that. He had no idea what day it actually was, or what might be going on in the Institute, but every moment he lingered was a moment that Jonah Magnus’s plan could advance. And like a tug-o’-war rope, every pull towards Jonah’s plan was a pull away from theirs. They had to stop it, and he certainly couldn’t do that from here. Besides, Martin was waiting for him (oh, _please_ let Martin be waiting for him).

Still, he gave himself a few moments to slowly, carefully, with the lightest of treads, traverse the little cottage and remember—if remembering it could be said to be. Here was the kitchen where they’d playfully battled over recipes and spices, there the living area where they’d sat together on the lumpy couch and read aloud or talked quietly. This was the curtain Martin always pulled back long enough to check the day’s weather before deciding if it was worth going for a walk or not, that the rug Jon constantly tripped over because he didn’t pick his feet up enough when he walked if he wasn’t paying attention. Upstairs and to the right was the largely barren room Daisy probably used for storing things and Jon had intended to use for reading statements, even if he’d only read the one. To the left…

Jon paused in the doorway and stared into the bedroom. It was relatively small—cozy was the word Martin had eventually used, and Jon had agreed—with a dresser and wardrobe, a double bed, and a nightstand, nothing more. When they’d first arrived, Jon had spent most of the day planning a precise, elaborate argument for why Martin should share the bed with him rather than forcing himself to sleep on the couch, rehearsing it over and over in his mind so he could say it without stammering or feeling even more like an idiot than usual, and then it had come to the point where they were both visibly getting tired and Martin had just asked if they could share it outright. They’d laughed about it, later, once they’d really had time to discuss what they were to one another.

Everything.

He’d have to hurry. Not just because he worried about what Jonah was up to, but because he worried about Martin. The Keeper had promised he would send Martin through with a way to shield himself from the Eye—from Jonah—but what if it didn’t work? What if Martin was in danger? What if he’d been caught—captured—maybe even hurt?

Jon hesitated, then went into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. He knew it wouldn’t smell like Martin, or have any of his warmth, but maybe if he lay there for a minute, he could pretend. But first…

He’d promised he wouldn’t try to Know anything about Martin. But…just a quick peek, he told himself. Just a brief look to find out where he was, whether or not he was okay. He wouldn’t go into what was in Martin’s head. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and reached out with his powers.

Nothing.

Jon sat up straighter, unconsciously balling the quilt up into his hands. He tried again, concentrating all his mind on Martin, _his_ Martin, his anchor, the one he’d clung to, the one who’d saved him. The one he loved. Hidden from Jonah, protected, that was all very well, and Jon certainly couldn’t assume he was stronger than Jonah even now, not when Jonah had had two hundred years to hone his abilities. But this was _Martin._ Jon ought to be able to find him, no matter how well-hidden.

But there was nothing. Not even the faint, muted, muffled, distant echoes he’d felt when they’d been separated in the Lonely’s rambling hell-mansion. Whatever had been done to hide him from Jonah, it had closed him off to the Eye altogether.

Jon bit back a moan of distress and put his face in his hands. For a moment, he was tempted to give in to despair. They hadn’t spent more than a few—hours? Time meant little, but it never felt like very long—apart since they’d been reunited in the Lonely the first time, as if they were making up for all the wasted time. They’d tried to give one another some space, as much as they could, and their separation when Martin had gone through his domain and Jon had gone to deal with Helen had probably done both of them some good, but they’d always known the other wasn’t far away. Now, though, Jon was alone in a place they’d once been together, and he had no idea where Martin was.

No. No, he _did_ know where Martin was, or at least where he would be. They’d discussed their plan. They _had_ a plan, and it all centered around the Archives. Martin had gone through first. The Keeper had told Jon, when he’d come to open the door for him, that Martin had arrived. He’d be in the Archives by the time Jon got there. He _had_ to be.

There was a faint whirring sound. Jon lifted his head and turned to glare at the tape recorder that had definitely _not_ been on the nightstand when he walked in. And yet, there it was. He’d wondered if the damn things would keep following him around in the past. He should have known better about that, too.

Almost without conscious thought, he reached for the device and brought it up to his lips. It was almost identical to the ones Martin’s recordings had been on when they’d been separated on their way to the Panopticon, a thought which sent a lance of pain through him, but he was driven by the need to speak into it, to make a _statement…_ of sorts, anyway. He didn’t know how much of it was the Eye compelling him and how much was just his desperate need to feel less alone, and honestly, he didn’t care.

“It’s an odd feeling to trust someone with your own life and safety, but have so much harder a time trusting them with another’s,” he said, feeling the texture of a statement on his tongue. “You would willingly walk into the mouth of hell if someone told you that by doing so you could save the life of the one you love, but the minute they ask the one you love to do the same for you, all you can see is the danger. How little your life is worth in comparison to theirs, how much more important their safety to yours. You have to have so much more _faith_ when it’s not your actions that determine their fate, and it’s far from easy.

“Somewhere a man in a thick blue-grey sweater and a dark fisherman’s hat stands at the window of a lighthouse overlooking a desert, surrounded by cans of alphabet soup and jars of cherry preserves, and watches doors appear and disappear, never staying long enough, and he _knows,_ he feels what those in his realm feel, because behind one of those doors is the reason he is set to his task. He stands there because he has made a promise, a bargain, to protect the one he loves, and he will abide by that bargain whatever it costs him, because the safety of the one he loves is more important. And in a future that no longer is, that man promised to help knowing that by doing so, he may give up his chance to ever see the one he loves again. He knows what safety is and he knows what love is, and he is willing to sacrifice for both.

“Somewhere a man in a sweater that brings out the color of his eyes paces through rows of shelves in an otherwise empty building, surrounded by files and objects, and hunts for intruders and danger and signs of invasion, and he _knows,_ he feels the same sense of being watched and followed he has felt since coming here, because he has seen the evidence all around him. He tells himself that it is for the best, that by drawing the danger’s attention to himself he is protecting the one he loves, and that it will harm no one if he is destroyed so long as the one he loves stays safe. And in a future that no longer is, that man looked the most dangerous being in the world in the eye and refused to move in order to protect the one he loves, despite knowing what he risked. He knows what safety is and he knows what love is, and he is willing to sacrifice the one for the other.

“Somewhere a man whose hair tells lies about his age sits behind a desk in an office with the door closed, surrounded by papers and recording equipment, and tries to find the threads of truth in tales of the fantastical and the fearful, and he _knows,_ he feels what those who have given their statements feel, because he in his own way has tasted it before. He looks at the cup of tea sitting on his desk and he worries for the one he does not yet know he loves, hopes that he is doing the right thing to keep him out of danger, though he scarcely knows why the safety of that one is so important to him. And in a future that no longer is, that man clung tightly to the one he loves and refused to let him go, even at the cost of the whole world. He knows what safety is and he knows what love is, and he is unwilling to sacrifice either.

“The Keeper would not harm either of us. More particularly, he would not harm Martin. He does not break promises, and he _loves_ , he cares deeply. He made a promise to get us back in safety. He was honest about what we faced—separation, the loneliness of distance—but he assured us that our time and space would align again. Unlike Helen, the Keeper did not want the world to be the way it was. He does not want the world to be the way it _is._ He is still human enough to regret. But he cannot help what he is, any more than—” Jon sighed, hating that he had to say it, even though he was still caught in the mire of the statement. “Any more than the rest of us can. Nor can he help the nature of the corridors through which we had to travel. Some things are too great to be controlled, and we must live with that.

“No distance is too far to travel, no obstacle too difficult to traverse. We _will_ be reunited. Wherever he is, Martin is safe and well and waiting. And wherever he is, he knows I am as well. He knows I am coming. Love and trust are bound in one another, and if we have brought nothing else out of our long, arduous journey, we have brought out trust. I trust Martin. I love him. He loves and trusts me. And when we are together, there is _nothing_ we cannot do.”

Jon took a deep breath, feeling the static of the statement recede. He set the recorder back on the nightstand gingerly. He didn’t bother to turn it off; it would stop recording when it was good and ready, and if he tried to stop it before it was, it would turn itself on anyway. Instead, he turned sideways, lay down, and curled up on the dusty bed.

He was right—it didn’t smell like Martin. Of course it didn’t smell like Martin. Martin had never slept in this bed, not yet. But it was soft and warm and comfortable, and it did at least stir up the memories of lying here with Martin, his head tucked into the crook of his boyfriend’s neck or Martin’s head resting against his chest or just the two of them facing one another and talking quietly in the darkness. The memories were tinged with melancholy, though, because Martin wasn’t here and Jon would always touch empty space if he reached over to where Martin should have been.

He hooked one hand into the collar of the sweater he wore and pulled it up over his nose. It was silly and juvenile, he knew that, but…well. It was Martin’s sweater, and even if Jon had been wearing it for a bit, it still smelled and felt enough like Martin that it was like he had a bit of his boyfriend there. Which, well, he did. That had been rather his point in wearing the sweater in the first place. The weight of it felt like one of Martin’s hugs, and the faintest scent still clung to the fibers—cinnamon and tea and, oddly, cherry. Jon had never understood why Martin smelled of cherries and hadn’t asked, but he did and the odor was a comfort.

He didn’t know how long he actually lay there. He must have fallen asleep at some point, because a beam of light poked through the chink in the curtains and stabbed him in the eye. He grumbled something that might have been _five more minutes_ and rolled over, intending to burrow into Martin’s softness and warmth.

Instead, he hit the cold, empty, dusty nothingness beside him, which jolted him awake more effectively than a bucket of cold water.

Jon sat up in a panic. He started to call Martin’s name before he fully came back to himself and remembered. He was in Scotland, yes, but alone. Martin was—presumably—in London, already in the Archives and waiting for him, or at least on his way there. The world hadn’t ended. They were, for a given definition of the word, safe, if apart.

They’d done it before, Jon reminded himself. They could do it again. It would only be a few more days.

He got off the bed, brushed off the dust that clung to his side, and straightened out the covers. He picked up the tape recorder and checked the inside of his bag. There was still food in it—a little of the stuff Martin had packed when they’d left Salesa, but most of it given to him by the Keeper. Jon traded the tape recorder for something he could eat quickly, slung the bag back onto his shoulders, and headed down the stairs. He could eat on the move.

He checked on the threshold of the little house. The last time he’d stepped through this door, the sky had blinked at him and he’d set out through a series of post-apocalyptic hellscapes designed to extract the maximum amount of fear from those trapped within their depths, and for a moment, he froze with his hand on the doorknob, unable to make himself turn it and go out. There was a momentary, almost childish fear that he would see the same if he stepped out now.

_Ridiculous._ Jon closed his eyes and forced himself to recall all the _other_ times he’d stepped through this door—the times Martin had convinced him to stop _moping about like a hermit, Jon, it’s a beautiful day outside and you need some vitamin D or you’re going to make yourself sick_ and come with him on a walk. He thought about rolling green hills and quiet winding paths, about slow-moving farmers and shaggy red cows, about puffy clouds drifting across perfect blue and stars twinkling in velvet black, about drying hay on the breeze and his boyfriend’s voice reciting a favorite poem.

He took a deep breath, turned the knob, opened the door. The sun was almost finished setting, bathing an idyllic, well-produced scene in a red-gold light. The road rolled onward, the world turned ever on, and everything was _fine_.

Right. First order of business: Find Martin. Second order of business: Save the world. Easy.

“I’m coming, Martin,” he whispered. “Hold on.”

Then, straightening his shoulders, he stepped over the threshold and set off towards London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spot the reference!


	5. Tim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sleepover in the Archives goes awry, as things in the Archives are wont to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been _so excited_ about getting to post this chapter, y'all have no idea.

Tim wonders where the hell everybody _is._ Jon’s not in his office, which is…unusual, to say the least, since they usually have to pry him out of it with a crowbar at the end of the day, and lately he’s been acting like lunch breaks are something that happen to other people. On the other hand, he might be poking around the Archives looking for more out-of-place statements to sneer at. Martin isn’t at his desk, either, unless he is and Tim just can’t see him; sometimes he swears Martin’s part chameleon, like he doesn’t exactly go invisible but can just fade into the background and not be seen. At least Tim knows for a fact that Sasha is off getting lunch, because she actually _told_ him where she was going.

“If this is a game of ‘Let’s Make Tim Think the Archives Are Cursed’, I think the Archives themselves won that game several weeks ago, so give it up, guys,” he says to the room at large. The room, thankfully, does not answer him.

Walking around aimlessly, looking for his colleagues, Tim appreciates for the first time why Martin is so jumpy lately. This is, not to put too fine a point on it, _creepy._ Wandering through rows upon rows of files containing the stories of scary encounters and eerie presentiments and the like, no sound but his own muffled footsteps, and he swears he can hear a faint susurration from the shelves, like they’re _whispering_ to him. Or like something is…crawling on the papers, rustling them ever so lightly. Makes his skin crawl and his fingers itch for the comforting weight of a fire extinguisher.

And it’s the middle of the day! It’s barely lunchtime and the lights are up and the window slits near the ceiling that let in enough daylight to help visibility but not enough UV light to damage the paperwork (honestly, it’s a shockingly well-designed and well-thought out archive for how old it is) are at full glow. And it’s _still_ creepy as hell. It has to be worse after dark, when there’s for _sure_ nobody here. The fact that Martin hasn’t run screaming from the Institute or had a complete nervous breakdown honestly has Tim feeling a surge of newfound respect for him, and for his courage—or at least his sheer bloody-minded stubbornness. There’s a fine line between the two and Tim rather suspects Martin uses it as a skipping rope.

“Hello?” he calls out, and then instantly curses himself. For God’s sake, he’s read the statements! He’s seen plenty of horror films, too, and then there’s…well, his own experience, which he’d rather not think about, thank you very much. Anyway, he knows damn well that nothing good ever happens after the person wandering alone through the spooky _whatever_ calls out “hello” into the empty nothingness. Ominous music tapers off, split second of utter silence, sudden surge of discordant musical sting, cut to black, and the next day someone stumbles on his desiccated corpse.

There’s a clatter from the next aisle and it almost has Tim running for the hills, but he pokes his head around the shelf and relaxes. “Oh, hey, Marto. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Tim! Christ, I—shit, sorry.” Martin is clutching a sheaf of papers in one hand and steadying the shelf with the other and looks flustered.

“You know, you’ve really got to stop apologizing when someone else spills soup on your lap.” Tim has no idea if Martin’s going to get that reference. He doesn’t seem like the type to be into American comedians, but you never know. “Was wondering where everyone was. I know Sasha’s at lunch, but I couldn’t find anyone else either.”

“Jon’s got a meeting with—Elias. Something about the budget, I think. I can hear him now. ‘I have acceded to your… _concerns_ in regards to the fire suppression system, but _really,_ Jon, it was quite expensive, so we’ll need to have a serious discussion regarding some of these other requests you’ve made.’” Martin’s impression of Elias’s voice is amazingly spot-on.

Tim frowns a little, though, because it’s also amazingly biting and bitter. He mocks Elias all the time, usually making Sasha and Martin laugh when he does, and occasionally Sasha joins in, but he’s never heard Martin do anything but laugh or nervously try to stop them. He’s _certainly_ never heard Martin speak about Elias, or anyone else for that matter, with that much anger—no, not anger. _Hatred._ Tim didn’t even realize Martin had that kind of hatred in him, let alone directed at Elias.

“How long have you worked here again?” he asks.

“F—eleven years, give or take. Why?”

Tim studies Martin. He looks…tired isn’t the word. He looks _exhausted._ He’s pale, although that could be because he’s been basically underground for almost two months and it was winter before that. His glasses sort of hide them, but looking closer, Tim can see shadows under his eyes so deep they’re nearly bruises. The papers in his hand waver a little, and it’s not because of air currents in the Archives, it’s because Martin’s hands are shaking, ever so faintly. He looks like a precariously-built structure that’s just had the support props removed—standing on his own, for the moment, but with a sense that it won’t take long, or much effort, to send him crashing to the ground.

It’s that that makes Tim decide to change tack. He was about to ask why Martin doesn’t quit if he hates Elias that much, but in the state he’s in, Martin might just do that, and if he quits he can’t stay living there, and if he leaves he might get hurt. Besides, he knows why Martin—usually—puts up with so much crap, and not just from Elias.

Instead, he says, “Well, I guess that’s long enough to build up a good reserve of aggro against the Big Guy. Aren’t you worried he’ll overhear you, though? After all, ‘nothing escapes his notice.’” He does his own impression of Elias, and it’s about as spot-on as Martin’s, but even he can hear the difference in tone.

“I’m not worth his attention.” There’s still that spark of bitter anger in Martin’s voice, but also a note of resignation. “Besides, he’s busy with his meeting. He won’t be looking at anything down here.”

The first part of Martin’s reply has Tim wanting to storm up to the office and knock _both_ his bosses’ heads together—nobody has the right to make Martin feel like that—but the second part gives him pause. Martin makes it sound like Elias is…spying on them. Tim knows there’s no CCTV equipment in the Archives, something about interference, but could Elias have the place bugged?

“You get that feeling, too, do you?” he asks quietly. “Like you’re being… _watched?_ ”

Martin laughs. There’s no humor in it. “Yeah, get used to that, it’s not ever going to go away.” Before Tim can say anything, he rubs a hand over his face. “Sorry. Sorry, I’m just…sorry.”

“You really don’t have anything to be sorry for.” Tim glances at the papers in Martin’s hand. “So what’s that, then?”

“Oh. Erm, Jon asked me to—to pull some statements that might be helpful, so I was looking through and seeing what we’ve got.” Martin holds up the paper to study it. “Thought this one might be useful.”

Partly because Martin is so visibly tired, and partly because Tim’s not actually capable of carrying out a conversation without being at least a _little_ lighthearted, he smirks. “Wow, I knew you were good, but I didn’t realize you were so good you could read a statement upside down.”

He expects Martin to blush. Instead, his face goes almost bone-white and his eyes get as big as saucers. He says something in what Tim is _pretty_ sure is Polish—something Eastern European, anyway, and he knows Martin speaks Polish—and is also pretty sure is profane, but then he recovers and looks up at Tim. “Well enough to pick out the salient points, anyway. Here—take a look. What do you think?”

He thrusts the papers at Tim, who decides—again—not to mention that Martin’s hands are shaking and takes them. His eyes fall on the name on the document, and his eyes widen.

“Okay, I take it back,” he says. “You said you saw salient points—did you see the name?”

“No, but—” Martin pauses. “Christ. It’s from _her,_ isn’t it?”

Tim doesn’t need Martin to clarify who _she_ is. “Yep. You should take this to Jon. Like, _now._ He’s definitely going to want to see this.”

Martin nods. “I’ll just—put it on his desk then. Unless you want to.”

“No, you go ahead. This is your find, you deserve the credit. I’m going to—” Tim waves vaguely over his shoulder. “It’s lunchtime. Want me to bring you back anything?”

“I’m good, but thanks, Tim.” Martin smiles. There’s something sad about it. “You’re a good friend.”

“Of course I am.” Tim grins to cover up his confusion. “Right, see you in an hour or so.”

“Right-o.” Martin hesitates for the barest of seconds, then starts off down the row of shelves. Tim hears a clang and a curse as he rounds the corner and suspects he’s run into something, or at least banged the fire extinguisher dangling from his hip like a gun in a cowboy movie into something.

Figuring Martin will be embarrassed and not want anyone fussing over him, Tim heads in the other direction, looking for Sasha. He lucks out; she’s just coming in the side entrance, stomping hard as she does so before shutting the door firmly. She looks over at Tim and grimaces. “Worms,” she says succinctly. “What’s up?”

Tim glances over his shoulder to make sure they’re alone, then quietly tells her, “I’m worried about Martin. Frankly, he looks like hell.”

Sasha frowns. “I mean, he _is_ under a lot of stress these days.”

“I know, and I don’t think he’s sleeping.” Tim quickly recounts the encounter he’s just had with Martin, as well as what preceded it. “As bad as it is being alone down here in the daylight, it must be a thousand times worse after dark. No wonder he isn’t getting any rest.”

“So what are you suggesting?”

Tim grins recklessly. “How do you feel about a sleepover in the Archives?”

Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t take him long to get Sasha on board; it’s obvious she’s been worrying about Martin, too, and there’s strength in numbers. Tim spends most of the rest of the day pretending to be working while really he’s plotting out how to stick around for the night without letting Jon know. It’s not that he thinks Jon would mind…well, he does, actually. He can almost hear Jon’s voice in his head: _This is a place of business, Tim, not a sleepaway camp._ Also, Tim doesn’t want Jon to decide to stay as well; he relaxes—some—when they’re all together off-duty, on the whole one occasion they managed to do that, but if they’re still in the Archives he’s perfectly capable of trying to make them keep working, and Tim very much wants to distract Martin from all the things he’s stressing about tonight, work included.

Besides, he’s also trying to surprise Martin, despite that probably not being a great idea.

In the end, it turns out to be pretty easy. Jon doesn’t linger at the end of the day, so Tim and Sasha walk out with him, calling cheerful good-nights to Martin before trooping out the outer access door. Tim, the only one who drives to work regularly, offers Sasha a ride home; she pretends to grudgingly accept. He offers Jon one, too, but unsurprisingly (and thankfully, as Tim has conveniently omitted to mention that he _didn’t_ actually drive in today), Jon declines, citing as his reason that he lives in the opposite direction as both of them. As they reach the edge of the grounds, Tim slips his hand in his pocket for his keys. Nothing.

“Oh, hell,” he says, trying very hard not to overdo it as he pats himself down. “Where the hell are my keys?”

“You had them in your hand when you got back from lunch,” Sasha volunteers. “Maybe you left them on your desk?”

“Or I dropped them. Hope I didn’t throw them out by mistake.” Tim turns back towards the Institute. “Front door’s still unlocked, I can just pop down and check for them…you want to wait out here, Sash?”

“Not likely.” Sasha falls into step with him. “Four eyes are better than two, and those steps are spooky after dark. I’ll come help.”

Tim glances over his shoulder briefly as they head up the steps. Jon is halfway down the block towards the Tube station. “I don’t think he heard a word of that, actually.”

“Better safe than sorry, right?” Sasha nudges him. “Come on, let’s see if we can slip past Rosie.”

Fortunately, there’s a big crowd heading outside about then, so they’re able to escape attention as they head back down the steps leading to the Archives. The first thing Tim does is head over to his desk and hold up the keys he deliberately left sitting there with an air of triumph. “Here they are!”

“Tim, you’re an idiot.” Sasha shakes her head in amusement.

“But a devious one.” Tim drops the keys into his jacket pocket before hanging it on the back of his chair. “Come on, let’s go find Martin and rustle up some dinner.”

Sasha hangs up her jacket, too, and the two of them head into the Archives. Tim at first is going for the little room where the cot is set up, where Martin’s been sleeping, but then he hears…voices? _A_ voice, at least. It sounds like Martin, and it sounds like he’s having a conversation with someone, but…

“Martin?” he calls, not wanting to startle him again. “You talking to yourself over there?”

“Tim!” Martin’s voice is high and strained. “Y-you’re supposed to—yes! Yes, I _am_ talking to myself, sorry about that.” He pops out from behind a shelf and forces a smile. “Sasha? What are you two doing here? Did you forget something?”

“Yes,” Sasha says. “We _forgot_ that we get to go home safe every night while you’re stuck here in the middle of the spooky, whispering, singing Archives.”

“Singing?” Tim and Martin say in unison.

Sasha frowns at them both. “Yes. Neither of you has heard it? That faint singing, when there’s no other sound to be heard?”

Tim gives Martin a confused look. Martin looks both confused and worried. “No? No, I can’t say I’ve ever noticed it.”

There’s a clatter from somewhere else in the Archives, and Martin casts a nervous glance over his shoulder. Tim stiffens. “What was that?”

“Nothing. Nothing. It’s—it’s probably nothing.” Martin runs a hand through his hair, looking worried. “Anyway, you two should—go, maybe. It’s getting dark and all.”

“Nope, not tonight.” Tim slings an arm around Martin’s shoulders. “I’ve decided not to leave you alone anymore. Sasha’s staying tonight, too, it’s up to her if she stays after this, but from now on, I’m not leaving the Institute until you can, too.”

“Erm—thanks, Tim, but…” Martin wrings his hands. “I don’t mind staying alone tonight. There’s something I need to do and—it’s best I do it myself, so—maybe another night? Besides! Besides, you’re not even prepared for this and…”

“Martin,” Sasha says, looking annoyed, “what’s going on?”

Tim should probably be annoyed, too, but he’s just worried. He tries not to show it, though. Whatever it is Martin is planning to do, or whatever reason he thinks he needs to be alone, Martin is pretty damn stubborn and it’s going to take a gentle application of pressure rather than a show of force to get him to yield. Persuasion rather than intimidation.

“We’re friends, right?” he says, as gently as he can. “You can trust us.”

Martin’s shoulders slump. “I know. It’s just…you’re going to think I’m crazy.”

Tim spreads out his hands, palms up. “You were held hostage in your flat for two weeks by a thousand worms wrapped in a trench coat, which followed you home after you broke into a basement to investigate a man who was stalked and murdered by the ghost of a spider he killed twenty years ago. Sasha was attacked by a man with knives for hands and a smile that didn’t fit his face, and now she’s talking about the Archives _singing._ I haven’t even ever told you why I came to work at the Institute in the first place, but believe me, it makes the rest of that seem normal. Whatever you’re going to tell us, I promise you, _crazy_ is the last thing I’ll think you are.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Besides, you’re wrong about us not planning anything for this. I bought us dinner when I was out on my lunch break, so let’s all head to the break room and eat, and you can tell us what’s going on.”

Sasha loops her arm through Martin’s on one side, and Tim takes the other, so he can’t escape them, and together they proceed to the break room. The halls are set to emergency lighting only, and the break room is completely dark, but when Tim fumbles for the switch, Martin extracts his arm and clicks on a torch.

“The lights are centrally controlled,” he explains. “There’s a master switch somewhere. I don’t know if Rosie or Elias turns it off when they leave, but one of them does, so it’s nothing but emergency lighting, and I’ve only seen that in the Archives.”

Tim wonders how he’s never known that, but then again, it’s not like he stays late all that often, maybe twice in the whole three years he’s been with the Institute. (God, has it _really_ only been three years?) And it’s not like he’s ever gone around looking for light switches before. Never been a priority.

“Well, then,” he says, “I guess we’ll take our food back to the Archives. We can have a picnic on the floor or something and you can explain what the hell is going on there.”

Martin doesn’t say anything, just shines the light on the refrigerator. Tim retrieves the takeout containers he placed there with PROPERTY OF TIMOTHY STOKER, CONTAINS POISON, ELECTRIFIED, DO NOT TOUCH, THIS MEANS YOU, SCOTT scribbled across the tops and sides, then comes back to the door. “If this didn’t work, I’m going to figure out a way to actually electrify them next time,” he informs the others.

Sasha snorts. “You really think it’s Scott who keeps stealing your lunches?”

“It’s either him or the monster under the fridge.” Tim regrets saying it as soon as it’s out of his mouth, because there are times jokes like that don’t feel all that much like jokes.

When they get back to the Archives, Tim is about to suggest a comfortable corner to have their dinner in when there’s a loud banging noise that almost makes him drop the containers. Sasha about jumps out of her skin. “What was _that?”_

“Who’s there?” Tim yells, despite having already realized that _not_ doing that is practically Horror Film 101.

The answer makes Tim’s blood run cold, for two reasons. One, it’s coming from Jon’s office, the door of which is now ajar…and two, it’s _Martin’s_ voice. “Storage room! Now!”

“Come on, come on!” Martin—the _real_ Martin—grabs Sasha’s wrist on one side and Tim’s arm on the other and practically drags them across the floor. Sasha screams, and Tim follows her gaze and can’t help a shout of fear as well. Pouring out of Jon’s office are hundreds—maybe thousands—of small white worms, wriggling wetly and coming straight at them.

Martin makes a noise that’s somewhere between a whimper and a defiant yell and hauls both of them over to a door off to one side. He lets go of Tim long enough to yank the door open, then shoves the other two in and slams it shut once they’re all inside, breathing heavily.

“What the hell is going on?” Tim demands, wavering somewhere between outrage and fear.

“The worms,” Martin gasps, which isn’t really an answer. “This room is sealed. I checked it myself when I moved in. Also climate-controlled. Sturdy door. Soundproof. These old documents are better protected than we ever were.”

He sounds like he’s repeating a lesson. Sasha shoots him a sharp look. “And that voice from Jon’s office? The one that told us to come in here?”

“The one that sounded like _you?_ ” Tim adds.

“It _is_ me,” Martin says, his voice high and sharp. Clearly he’s at the end of his tether. “From the future. He came back to stop the world from ending and this is _apparently_ part of the plan and I, I knew he was going to start it tonight, he told me after we _thought_ all of you had left that he had something to do and I was _supposed_ to help him with it, but I wasn’t counting on you two sticking around. I also didn’t expect him to start this _fast,_ but—” He breaks off abruptly and leaps back from the door. “Christ!”

Sasha looks stunned by the barrage of information. Tim is, too, but he’s also worried about whatever Martin sees out there, so he thrusts the takeaway containers at her without conscious thought and peers out the window in the door. What he sees turns his stomach.

“O… _kay._ ” He takes a deep breath. “That is…a _lot_ of worms.”

“Any sign of Prentiss?” Martin asks anxiously.

“Not yet.” Tim realizes what he just said and turns to look at Martin. “You think she’ll show up?”

Martin makes an exasperated gesture. “No, Tim, I think worms are just randomly pouring into the Archives undirected. It’s just your basic insect infestation. Maybe somebody left food out!”

“Okay, okay, I get the picture.” Tim steps back. He really doesn’t want to see what’s out there.

Sasha hands him back the takeaway containers and steps up to peer out herself. “Martin…are you _sure_ it’s really…you know, you from the future?”

“Positive. He knows things about me that I haven’t…really told many people? He told me to—” Martin takes a deep breath and looks away from Sasha. “To, erm, tell Jon that I lied on my CV, I don’t _actually_ have a master’s degree in parapsychology, I just really needed the job. He said Jon wouldn’t be mad at me, and…well, he was right. He told me the worms were under the Institute, but they weren’t really after me, so I’d be safe.”

“ _This_ is safe?” Tim demands.

“Well, I think he sort of—broke into the walls? He’s going after them now. I’m—I _was_ supposed to set a fire, not a big one, just small enough to set off the suppressant system so that whatever got in here would die.” Martin swallows hard.

“You’re _not_ going out there alone,” Tim says firmly.

“You’re not going out there _at all,_ ” Sasha says. She backs away from the door and leans against the wall, rubbing her temples. “God! Tell me you can’t hear that _now._ ”

“Hear what?” Tim asks.

Martin cocks his head. “I don’t hear anything. And we _shouldn’t_ be able to hear anything. I told you, this room’s soundproof.”

“I can hear the singing. Like…” Sasha frowns and moves away from the wall. Her frown deepens and she moves back. “Wait…it’s louder over here. Like it’s coming from inside the wall… _this_ wall.”

“Isn’t that an exterior wall?” Tim asks.

“Should be.” Sasha thumps on it, hard, and manages to put a fist-sized dent in the drywall.

After that…things happen rather quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, yes, I know that ending seems like a bit of a cop-out, but I _promise_ you'll find out what happened different...eventually.


	6. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon stops back into the Archives and finds more than he bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally published as a stand-alone fic, [Still Lies the Midnight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27090994), for Whumptober of this year. There are a few differences in that fic and this chapter, mostly tightening up a few things and adding a couple details that needed to be added to bring it in line with the longer fic. (This was actually the first part of this fic I wrote.) Whether you've read that or not, I hope you enjoy this.

Jon grumbles to himself as he drives back through the streets of London. Stupid. Stupid of him to have left his notes behind and stupid to be going back for them now. He could easily wait until morning. There’s no real urgency in the matter. What can he possibly do in the next—he glances at the dashboard clock on his car—nine hours that can’t wait until business hours?

But after realizing he left them in his office, he was out the door and in his car before he thought about it. Even now, he can’t convince himself to just turn around and go back. There is an odd sense of urgency propelling him, hence why he’s driving instead of submitting to the capricious whims of the late-night London Transit schedule. He needs to get to the Archives, needs to get those notes. And, all right, maybe he’ll check on Martin while he’s at it.

Really, he might as well stay overnight himself. No point in driving back and forth more than necessary. He can get whatever work he wants done just as easily in the office, and it might be useful to have another pair of hands or eyes or ears or whatever he needs, even if—

Jon terminates that line of thought ruthlessly. Martin _isn’t_ incompetent. He just doesn’t have the training the rest of them do. If Jon thinks about it too hard, he actually feels a bit of a heel for having been so harsh on the man without troubling to ask questions. He did what he could with what he had, and now that he’s come out and admitted it, Sasha has been more than willing to help him out. He is getting better. A lot better. And it’s only been a few days.

So...yes. If he stays at the office to work, Martin can help. And probably will, if he’s still awake. It is, after all, a bit late. Jon will have to be quiet, at least at first, because if Martin is asleep he doesn’t want to wake him. He needs rest. They all do, really, but Jon is an anxious mess at the best of times and this whole...situation isn’t helping, so his sleep is ofttimes restless at best and intermittent at worst. He’ll likely end up pacing the Archives for most of the night. Maybe he’ll check to make sure that CO2 system he talked Elias into having installed is working properly. Or maybe he’ll go through the statements. Martin found one that seemed to be from Jane Prentiss; Jon meant to read it the night before, but hadn’t got around to it. Yes, that will likely be what he does.

He turns a corner and slams on his brakes. There is a veritable wall of emergency lights before him—police, fire, even an ambulance. And it all seems to be centered around...

_No._

Jon isn’t one hundred percent certain the car is even all the way off, let alone pulled over to the curb, before he’s out the door and moving towards the crowd. Something is happening, and it’s happening at the Magnus Institute.

Jon scans the people clustered on the sidewalk. There aren’t many, not that he expected there to be. It is, after all, well into the evening. Most people leave at five, or close to it. In fact, most of the people on the sidewalk seem to be from nearby buildings, mere curious onlookers gawking at the spectacle. Jon doesn’t see anyone he recognizes, and he slowly begins to relax.

Then panic strikes him like an almost physical force. _Martin._ Martin should be easy to spot. He’s big—not fat, exactly, just big—and one of the taller employees. He ought to be standing on the edge of the crowd, a bundle of anxiety and attempted helpfulness, talking to a police officer or an onlooker or looking around to make sure he isn’t going to get in trouble for something that almost certainly isn’t his fault.

He’s not there. Jon spins frantically, but Martin is nowhere to be seen. He could be on the far side of the crowd, or he could have stepped out for something, or—

Or he could still be in the Archives.

Jon runs towards the door, hardly aware he’s doing it. Something slams into him, holding him back, and he struggles, his panic rising. Something is _holding_ him, he’s trapped, he’s in danger, but _Martin is still in there—_

“Hold on, sir, you can’t go in there!”

“No, you don’t understand, I have to—my _friend_ is in there—” Jon fights to get free.

“Crews are inside, sir, they’ll find anyone who’s in there, but you need to stay out here. We can’t have you running into danger.”

The fireman—as it proves to be—deposits Jon behind a barricade. He grips it in both hands, staring desperately at the door to the Archives. There doesn’t seem to be any smoke pouring out of the door, which is...maybe promising, but maybe not. Maybe still too late.

There was a fire in the Archives, somehow. Martin was down there. If he didn’t wake in time...or if he wasn’t able to get out, if the CO2 suppressant system triggered and he breathed in too much of the stuff...

A chasm seems to open up before Jon as he suddenly, unexpectedly faces down the idea of a world devoid of Martin Blackwood. His mind conjures up thoughts of Martin’s not-too-chipper _morning, Jon_ every day, of his quiet determination to do his job even when he doesn’t really know what he’s doing, of the earnest way he makes his reports. Of him appearing in Jon’s office with a cup of tea, made exactly the way Jon likes it, at the exact moment he needs it the most.

In that moment, Jon understands with crystal clarity exactly how important Martin is to him, and how much it will devastate him if he is gone. His grip on the barricade tightens and he begins to wonder if he can escape the notice of the firefighters in order to—

“Jon?”

Only one person—one _living_ person, anyway—ever addresses Jon in that slightly disapproving tone. Jon turns to find Elias standing a few feet away, one eyebrow raised and his mouth set in a flat line. “Elias. What—what’s going on?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” Elias’s disapproval is almost palpable. “I don’t see the others. I must say, I never would have expected you to run and leave them behind.”

“Leave—what do you mean?”

Elias’s lips tighten. “You think I wasn’t aware of what was going on? I _did_ hear Tim talking about this ‘sleepover in the Archives’.”

Jon stares at Elias for a second, comprehension eluding him. Then, suddenly, ice floods his veins as he realizes what Elias is implying.

Not just Martin. Tim and Sasha doubled back to spend the night, too.

“Oh, God,” he manages to choke out.

Elias’s expression shifts. “You weren’t aware?”

“No!” Jon turns desperately back towards the Institute, towards the Archives, frantically scanning for any sign of...anything. “No, I thought—they both should have gone home by now, I—oh, _God._ No.”

He starts to dodge around the barricade, but Elias has his shoulder in an iron grip. “Steady, Jon. The ECDC said not to—”

“The what?” Jon jerks his head around to face Elias. Realization hits him, yet again, and while he would have sworn there isn’t enough blood left in his face for it to drain any further, he is apparently wrong about that. “ _Jane Prentiss_ is here?”

“Jon, you’re getting hysterical. Calm down.”

“ _Calm down?_ You’ve just informed me that my entire staff was in the Archives, which apparently were not only _on fire_ but invaded by a woman completely riddled with dangerous worms, and you want me to _calm down?_ ”

“The fire was apparently small, and, I suspect, set mostly with the intention of triggering the CO2 suppressant system—”

“If that is supposed to make me feel better, Elias, it is failing.” Jon turns back to the Archives and contemplates making a break for it. It’s fifty-fifty whether Elias will stop him, or just wait to see if he survives and then fire him, but the emergency staff are—

There’s a lot of activity around one of the doors. Jon lets out a ragged gasp as two paramedics come out, wheeling a stretcher between them with a body on it. He doesn’t— _can’t—_ know for sure who is on it, not from that distance, not in the dark and with his eyesight, but he does. He knows, with a certainty that he can almost taste, that it’s Martin on that stretcher.

And he isn’t moving.

“ _Jon!_ ” Elias shouts, but Jon is past hearing him, too preoccupied with rushing across the lawn. He has to get to him, has to see—

“Stand back!” A figure in a hazmat suit suddenly looms up, barring his progress. “You can’t come in this area!”

“Damn you, that is someone I _care_ about, I need to know he’s okay!” Jon cries, his voice cracking.

“I’m sorry, sir, but this area is off-limits until we’re sure we’ve contained the infestation,” the figure in the hazmat suit says. “You should be able to see him once he’s out of quarantine.”

“But—” Jon’s eyes desperately track the stretcher as they wheel it past, the two attendants tossing terms and orders back and forth. It _is_ Martin, he was right, lying very still. There’s an oxygen mask clamped over his face, and he’s—oh, God, he’s covered in _blood—_ he was attacked—the worms, or Jane Prentiss, or both, they attacked Martin, he is _hurt_ , he might be dying, he could already be dead and the oxygen mask could just be for form’s sake and nobody will _tell_ him because they have to control the damage and cover up what’s happening and Jon can’t even be at his side because he might still be infested with the parasites that riddled Prentiss’s body and oh, God, what will he do if Martin survives only to be like _that,_ this is all his fault, why in the name of God’s green earth did he think the Archives would be safe, why was it only Martin he suggested stay, why hadn’t he either had all of them stay, or had all of them stay somewhere else—

The slam of the ambulance doors jolts him out of his thoughts, and he draws in a great gasp of air, which he realizes he’s been forgetting to do somewhat. It would start calming him if not for the fact that he suddenly realizes where his thoughts are trending and starts panicking all over again. “Tim and Sasha! Where are they?”

The figure hesitates, then waves at someone. Another hazmat-suited figure comes over to them, and Jon can see the scowl behind the clear plastic mask, even over the breathing apparatus. “Get back behind the barricades! This area is under quarantine, and unless you want to be quarantined too, I suggest you stay clear.”

It crosses Jon’s mind, for a fleeting second, to ask if he’d be quarantined with Martin, but the thought is gone before he can speak it, fortunately. The figure that still holds him is already speaking, though. “Mack, how many people have we found so far?”

“Two, the man they just brought out and...well, what’s left of a woman,” the second figure says. “I’m told everyone should have been gone for the day.”

“My assistants decided to spend the night,” Jon says. He can hear the hysterical quality in his own voice but is helpless to stop it. “There should be two more, a man and a woman—he’s got, ah—and she’s—” He flounders as he tries desperately to conjure up a description of either Tim or Sasha. The only face his brain seems willing to contemplate just then is Martin’s, bright and eager, pale and scared, still and bleeding.

“We haven’t found them, sir, but we’ll keep looking.” The second figure’s tone changes—concern, maybe? Still, he waves at the first figure, who shoves Jon easily back behind the barricade.

Someone, probably Elias, is talking. Jon honestly isn’t listening. He’s torn between proceeding immediately to the hospital to stalk the lobby until someone lets him see Martin—he assumes they’re taking him to the hospital, anyway—or staying here to make sure Tim and Sasha are all right. He _should_ probably be concerned about the Archives, about what caught on fire, on whether or not any important statements got burnt and how big the fire was, and he’s not going to lie, a part of him is. But he’s willing to let that concern lie until later. Right now, he just needs everyone to be okay.

“ _Jon,_ ” Elias says loudly, directly in his ear, and Jon about jumps out of his skin. He turns to see his boss looking at him with something that might be concern and might just be annoyance. “The worms are dead. ECDC is about to go in and remove Jane Prentiss’s body. I’m going in to supervise. Do you want to come?”

He really doesn’t. Quite apart from the fact that he’s been sufficiently upset by the few worms he _has_ seen around the Institute and really doesn’t want to see how many are still in the Archives, even dead, he’s just about decided that he needs to be at the hospital. Martin doesn’t have anybody, as far as Jon knows, and anyway he needs to see for himself that Martin is all right. But he also knows that this is part of his job, and a part of him _does_ need to see the Archives for himself as well, before...before whatever cleanup will happen.

Besides. Tim and Sasha are still down there.

“All right,” he manages. “Lead the way.”

He’s tense and distracted. Far from the mad rush that drove him a few moments before, he follows Elias at a more sedate pace, and he’s only half-aware of the fact that he’s balling the cuffs of his cardigan into his hand. Damn it, he bought this one brand-new when he got appointed Head Archivist and he’s already worried snags and stresses into the cuffs. He can’t help it, he’s got a compulsion to fiddle with the ends of his sleeves when he’s nervous or distracted—among other things—and this is hardly the first sweater he’s ruined like this, but it’s still been less than eight months and he’d sort of hoped he would be over this by now. He forces himself to uncurl his fists and shake his sleeves back into some semblance of order before entering the Archives.

They instantly go back into his curled fists when he sees the state of the Archives. There are worms _everywhere._ He cannot, for the life of him, figure out where they all came from. They’ve seen a few scattered around outside the Institute, one or two making their way inside, but this many? God, they must have been breeding in the damned _walls..._

The thought sends another sticky spiral of panic and guilt through him. If the worms were breeding in the walls of the Institute—of the Archives—and Martin’s been sleeping here this whole time—then this is entirely Jon’s fault. This could have happened at any time and he never would have known. He doesn’t doubt for a minute that Martin was awake when all this happened, but if Tim and Sasha hadn’t been there, he might have been asleep when the worms attacked.

He might not ever have woken up.

Jon looks desperately around, trying to keep his mind on the present and not on hypotheticals. There are files that have been pulled out and...are probably ruined, to be quite honest, as there’s some sort of...substance on them. There’s a great deal of activity surrounding what appears to have once been the body of a woman, in what appears to have once been a red dress, and Jon’s stomach turns uncomfortably as he thinks about Timothy Hodge’s statement...and Martin’s. The remnants of suppressant foam still linger, and while the gas seems to have mostly dissipated, the smell is...unpleasant. The smell of worms, and earth, and rot.

Then Jon’s eyes fall on a blank space, a curved-out negative in the sea of silver-white, and his heart lurches as he realizes he’s staring at the spot where Martin lay before the attendants took him out. He steps closer, not even consciously aware he’s doing it, and stares at the space, a perversion of a snow angel on the Archives floor. There’s blood on the wood, still tacky, and Jon wonders how much there is, whether it’s too much for a normal human to survive.

“Were you here when they...?” Jon addresses the nearest person, indicating the spot where Martin’s body obviously was retrieved from.

“Was the one who found him,” the figure confirms. It sounds like a woman. “Not a reporter, are you?”

“No, I’m—I-I work here.” Jon should probably point out that he is, in fact, _in charge_ here, or at least in this portion of “here”, in theory anyway, but he’s too preoccupied with finding out everything he can. “How was—what was the situation when you found him?”

“A bloody mess.” The woman waves a hand at the area. “Worms were all dead, thankfully, but there was still a bit of gas in the place. We knew we were looking for Jane Prentiss—Mr. Bouchard called us in as soon as he knew what was what—but we didn’t know there was anyone else here. I almost stepped on him before I saw him. Thought he was another dead body at first.”

Jon’s heart nearly stops in his chest. “But then?”

“He moved. Thought it might’ve been the worms at first. They were all through him. Looked like bloody Swiss cheese. But they were all as dead as the ones out here. No, it was him, struggling to breathe. I started pulling the worms out best I could and shouted for help. The paramedics showed up and helped out. He was starting to come round at that point, but...well. People aren’t meant to breathe carbon dioxide. They gave him oxygen and wheeled him out. He’ll need to be quarantined a bit until they’re sure he’s not infested, and they’ll be checking his lungs, but really, I think he’ll be fine.”

Jon exhales heavily. He really shouldn’t be relieved. Honestly, one look around the Archives should be enough to convince him that things are...bad. They _are_ bad. God, so many worms, and some of them were _in_ Martin’s body. There is also a human corpse on the floor. And there’s still no sign of Tim or Sasha. But those five words give him more of a sense of relief than he’s felt since he saw the first emergency light. _I think he’ll be fine._ Martin will be fine.

It’s enough to relax Jon to the point that he can wade carefully through the worm corpses to check the damage to his Archives, while Elias supervises the ECDC people in preparing to remove Jane Prentiss’s body, or what’s left of it anyway. Not far from where Martin lost consciousness— _not died, thank God—_ is another odd clearing—not so much a clearing as a slight thinning in the concentration of worms. Jon eyes it, decides it’s a concern for later, and concentrates on trying to figure out where the hell the worms came from in the first place.

He finds the answer when he wanders into his office and finds the cheap shelving unit shoved to one side, twisted and askew, and a hole in the wall behind it. It should have been an exterior wall, but no, it looks like someone put a piece of drywall over an entrance. Curious, Jon touches the hole lightly. It’s person-sized, as though someone burst through the wall. At first, he’s inclined to assume it was made by Jane Prentiss, forcing her way into the Archives, but a second glance proves otherwise. The break in the plaster indicates that it came _from_ his office, not _into,_ meaning that someone was in his office and, somehow, knew this tunnel was there.

That should be worrying. It _is_ worrying. Jon wonders who did it...who would break into his office, let alone push through this wall...who would put Martin in danger, because almost certainly this is how the worms got in and attacked him. He’d suspect Tim or Sasha or both, since they’re clearly not here, but he knows in his heart of hearts neither of them would deliberately put Martin at risk. They’re a family, the four of them, even if Jon’s been trying not to admit that, and they both care about him. They wouldn’t do anything to hurt him.

But if they didn’t know...

There’s a commotion from behind him, and Jon jumps. The thought passes through his mind that Jane Prentiss might not be all that dead after all, or worse—that she’s not alone, that she brought another of her victims along with her. He grabs at the first object he sees that could reasonably be considered a weapon—a paper knife he found in one of the drawers when he first took the job—and steps out into the Archives proper, not at all confident that he can do anything but at least willing to make the attempt.

He drops the knife instantly when he sees the two figures in the middle of the Archives, both looking panicky and quite out of breath. “Tim! Sasha!”

He rushes towards them, heedless of the worms popping and squishing under his feet. Tim looks up at him and waves at something on the floor—a hole. Jon realizes all of a sudden that they’re standing next to an open trapdoor in the middle of the Archives, something he had no idea existed before this moment.

“Call...police,” he manages to gasp out between heaving breaths.

“They’re outside,” Elias says, sounding somehow both worried and annoyed. “Tim, what is going on? What is the urgency?”

Sasha meets Jon’s eyes, and he’s genuinely never seen her so scared. “There’s a body in those tunnels. It’s Gertrude Robinson and she’s dead.”


	7. Martin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin is way too tired to deal with all of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it, and happy Thursday to those who don't! (It's still technically Thursday here, hush.)

Martin is ready to go now.

It’s late—it was late when all this started, but it has to be closing in on midnight now. He’s wrapped up like a mummy, and he’s only not in complete agony because one of the very nice paramedics got permission from the doctor at whatever hospital to give him some painkillers. He’s still in pain, but it’s fainter, more muffled. He’s tired and he’s, well, drugged, and it’s hard to think straight, and he just wants to get some rest. He wants to go _home,_ or at least somewhere quieter and less...wormy than here. Somewhere safe.

He’s seen movement and flashing lights through the translucent plastic sheeting that is the quarantine tent, heard voices and shouting that he can’t quite make out, but it all seems to have mostly died down by now. Martin wonders how he’s going to get anywhere, much less home. He wonders if Tim and Sasha made it out of those tunnels okay, if the other is all right. He wonders about the scream.

But nobody will _tell_ him anything, only that he is not infested and needs to keep the wounds clean and needs fresh air. They tell him a lot about how to recover from what’s happened to him and a bit on what to expect about that process, but nothing about what’s going on beyond the four walls of this tent, and it’s worrying Martin. A lot.

“What time is it?” he asks the paramedic currently standing with him. Her partner has stepped outside and may or may not be talking to someone, probably from ECDC. He’s at least ninety percent certain they showed up for this, considering the situation, which is a very mild way of putting it.

Before the paramedic can answer, the second one steps back into the tent and nods. “All clear. Everything’s settled...Mr. Blackwood, just to be clear, you are declining transportation to the hospital, correct?”

“That’s right.” Martin has been asking them to just give him the paperwork already for what feels like this side of forever.

“All right, go ahead and sign here, please.” The second paramedic hands him a clipboard. Martin’s hands are bandaged and it’s hard to hold a pen, but he manages it. He signs without really looking at what he’s signing. The paramedic studies it and nods. “That’s all in order, then. You’ll need to keep the bandages clean and dry, and you may need to go back to your regular doctor for a checkup...”

He rattles off more instructions for looking after himself and his wounds, but frankly, Martin is too tired to listen to all this _again_. He hopes whatever new information is included isn’t going to be too important, or difficult to figure out; Martin’s usually pretty good at taking care of others, but that’s the point, it’s always someone else he’s looking after. Maybe he’ll just have to think of himself as “someone else”. It’s going to be some time before he’s allowed back to work, he knows that much at least, so he’ll have plenty of time to figure out how to look after himself. Not like there will be anyone else to.

Something of all this must show in his face, because after a minute, the paramedic’s face softens. “I know, it’s a lot to throw at you right now. Don’t worry, I’ve already told your partner all of this.”

“My...?” Martin looks up, confused. He doesn’t have a partner. Who could be out there claiming that? The only one he can think of is the other, and surely he wouldn’t be so foolish as to come out in the middle of...all this.

“Yeah, I told him to give me a minute to debrief you and make sure you didn’t want transport.” The paramedic tucks the clipboard under his arm. “Do you think you can walk on your own?”

If he can’t, Martin’s not about to admit that out loud; they won’t let him leave if he can’t, and he doubts they have crutches handy. “I think so, yeah. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” The paramedic smiles. “You’re a lucky man, you know.”

“I know.” Martin only has to think about Timothy Hodge to know that. If the system had triggered any slower, he might have ended up too far gone to save, even if the CO2 had worked.

The paramedic winks. “’Course, he’s luckier. Take care, Mr. Blackwood.”

“Erm, you, too.” Martin bites his lip to hide his confusion and slides carefully off the stretcher. The painkillers help, but he’s still a little unsteady on his feet. He wobbles at first, but manages to make it to the edge of the quarantine tent without too much difficulty.

He steps outside and shivers. Apparently the tent blocked a lot of the night chill out; it may be halfway to June, but the nights are still cool and Martin wasn’t wearing his sweater when everything went down. It’s still in the Archives...he hopes. Assuming his little fire didn’t spread. Assuming Jane Prentiss didn’t cover the whole place in...whatever that was. Assuming...

“Martin!”

Martin looks up in shock to see Jon coming towards him, eyes wide and panicky. Behind him are—thank _God—_ Tim and Sasha, both looking none the worse for wear. Tim and Sasha should be there, of course, but Jon...Jon went home hours ago, it’s late, he needs his sleep. It has to be a hallucination.

“Jon?” he says anyway.

Jon stops in front of him and reaches out like he wants to touch his shoulder, then stops himself, eyeing the bandages. “Are you all right? The paramedic said—”

“I—I’m fine.” It’s a lie, sort of, but Martin figures Jon doesn’t actually want to hear the nuances of that. “Apart from the...holes.”

He shivers in a sudden gust of wind, and Jon unfolds something under his arm. “Here, I—you left your sweater in the Archives, I—do you need a hand?”

Martin blinks in surprise. Is Jon sick? Is this even really Jon? He wants to say yes, to see how far this will go, but there’s enough of a height difference between the two of them that he finds himself saying, “I think I’ve got it, but...thanks.” As he takes the sweater, he manages to ask, “What are you doing here?”

Jon plays with the cuffs of his cardigan. “I—I came back to get those notes I was looking at before I left, I meant to take them with me and...I don’t know, I suddenly felt like I had to get them right away. I got back here and I found...” He gestures back in the direction of the Institute.

Martin struggles his way into the sweater and looks around. There are police cars, officers prowling about. The ambulance is packing up, and there’s a man in a white hazmat suit, minus the helmet which is under his arm, talking to one of the police officers. He mentally runs through the list of other flashing lights he saw through the walls of the tent, the voices he heard in the Archives, and surmises that there was a lot more chaos an hour or two ago.

“You should be sleeping,” he says instead, unable to keep the worry out of his voice.

Tim’s snort is practically elephantine, and Martin looks at him briefly. Jon just shakes his head. “I couldn’t—I realized you weren’t part of the crowd and that must mean you were still in there, and I—I had to make sure you were all right.”

“I’m all right.” Martin straightens up, despite the stiffness, and manages a smile. “I should...probably try and get home, I guess. If the trains are still running and all.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Jon gives him a look that’s almost reminiscent of his usual stern scowl. “I’ll give you a ride. I—I need to get your statement anyway, and...best to do it somewhere that...isn’t here.” He glances over his shoulder. “That goes for you two as well. _Especially_ you two.”

“Are you guys all right?” Martin asks anxiously.

“We’re fine.” Sasha manages to give him a smile, coming a little closer to him as she does so.

Tim nods. “Well, we’re not hurt, at any rate. It’s...a lot.” He pauses. “Tell you what. My place is closest. Why don’t we all go there? I’ve got plenty of room and we can...debrief or whatever it is we need to do.” He grins, a pale imitation of his usual confidence and cheek, but enough to make Martin feel a little better, anyway. “Besides, we never got that sleepover in the Archives. Might as well do it in my living room.”

Tim’s up to something. Martin’s almost sure of it, but he’s honestly too tired to care. “Yeah, okay, sounds good.”

“Come on, then,” Jon says, turning towards the curb.

Martin starts to follow, and his knees buckle. That fast, Jon turns around and tries to catch him, but unfortunately, Martin is about a head taller than Jon and outweighs him by a good amount, so now they’re _both_ falling. Luckily, Tim steps in and takes Martin’s other side, keeping them from pitching to the ground. “Whoa, there. Come on, nice and steady then.”

The three of them shuffle like an awkward, six-legged beast towards the curb, where a nondescript car that’s seen better days sits haphazardly parked and glared at by several officers. Jon opens the passenger side door, and Tim lets go of Martin slowly while Jon helps him settle into the seat. There’s a gentleness—almost a _tenderness—_ to his actions that Martin isn’t sure he’ll survive. Never mind the worms, he’s going to die right here in this car because Jon is being _nice_ to him.

Not to say Jon’s never been nice before. He’s been better—less tense, less angry—since Martin burst into his office and dumped a literal can of worms onto his desk. And there’s been a definite softening since Martin admitted he lied about his job history. But this level of concern, of care, is new, and Martin’s still not sure he isn’t hallucinating the whole thing.

He’s barely aware of Tim giving Jon an address, of Jon brusquely assuring him he knows where that is. He’s more concerned with not passing out or aggravating any of his injuries. He doesn’t know how many worms tried to burrow into his body, but he’s just thankful he’s not infected.

“Was the fire too bad?” he asks, feeling a little anxious.

“No, it was fine.” Jon’s voice is soft, reassuring. “Confined to a trash can, from what I could tell. I—I admit it wasn’t my primary concern when I went in. Elias said it looks like it was set to trigger the fire system.”

“It was. I just...didn’t want it to get out of control.” Martin takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t—”

“Martin, no. It’s fine. If—” Jon tightens his grip on the steering wheel briefly. “It’s fine. You did the right thing. Pulling the alarm wouldn’t have done anything but clear out the building, if there had still been anybody in there. It wouldn’t have set off the system.”

Martin nods slowly. Then his brain catches up with what Jon said. “Wait, _Elias_ was there? When? How?”

“I presume he gets an alert from the alarm company. I don’t know. He was already there when I arrived.” Jon glances over at Martin, his beautiful brown eyes still worried. “He’s the one who told me Tim and Sasha were in there.”

“How did he know?” Sasha blurts.

Jon’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror, then back to Martin, before returning to the road. “He said he overheard Tim talking about it.”

There’s an audible frown in Tim’s voice when he speaks, but Martin can’t spare the energy to try and turn his head. “Okay, now I really think he’s got the place bugged. The only person I mentioned it to was Sasha, and we were _in_ the Archives at the time. It was right after she got back from lunch—right after you showed me that statement you found.” He pauses. “Or _was_ that you?”

This time, Martin does turn his head, to see Tim regarding him seriously. “No. Must’ve been the other.”

Tim nods. “Thought as much. I’ve _never_ heard you talk like that before.”

“Wait, what are you talking about?” Jon asks. “The other _what?_ ”

Martin opens his mouth to explain, but Tim beats him to it. “Tell you when we get to my place. Don’t want you wrecking the car ‘cause you’re distracted. Make a left right here.”

Jon subsides and continues driving, but he keeps shooting glances at Martin that make him thoroughly nervous. He hates keeping secrets from Jon—from anyone, really, but especially Jon—and he really should have told him about this one right away. But the other’s caution had rubbed off on him, and he had kept his mouth shut. Now it’s going to be another stress about losing his job...despite the other’s reassurance that he won’t.

Even if he doesn’t lose his job...what if he loses Jon’s trust? He doesn’t think he’ll survive that.

Finally, Jon pulls the car to a stop in front of Tim’s house. Or at least, Martin assumes it’s Tim’s house, since he directed them there. For all he knows, this is some completely random place and Tim’s playing one of his jokes on them, but he doubts it. Tim undoes his safety belt and opens the door. “Come on in, everybody.”

Sasha gets out from behind Martin, too. Martin manages to get his safety belt unfastened, but when he goes to open the door and climb out, he can’t help the small, pained noise that escapes him when he tries to stand. He presses his lips together tightly and swallows down on the pain, desperate not to be a _burden,_ to prove that he’ll be fine when—inevitably—Jon drops him home or he manages to hobble to the nearest Underground station and get there himself. He can do this. It’s just a few steps.

“Martin?” Jon’s suddenly there beside him, one hand out uncertainly. “Here, let—let me give you a hand. You’ve got to be stiff at the very least, sitting cramped into that space for so long. I should have pushed the seat back before you got in—that’s why Sasha sat behind you, I’m sure, her legs are shorter...”

“I’m fine,” Martin insists, or tries to, despite the fact that he’s leaning heavily on the roof of Jon’s car for support and that’s _really_ not helping the pain from the holes under the bandages. “You don’t have to.”

“Maybe not, but let me help you anyway,” Jon says. He sounds like he’s trying to summon up his usual brusque and stern façade, but the genuine worry in his eyes makes a lie of that. Martin doesn’t know what to think about it, but he can feel his ears getting hot.

“Sure, okay,” he hears himself say softly.

Jon slips an arm gingerly around him, draping Martin’s arm around his shoulder. Martin tries not to lean on him too hard, but Jon takes more of his weight than Martin would prefer as they limp towards the front door. When Tim, who’s in the process of unlocking the door, realizes what’s going on, he abandons the keys and comes back to help. Since he’s closer to Martin’s height, it makes things easier.

Sasha pulls the door open for them, holds it so they can maneuver in, then shuts the door behind them as Tim switches on the hall light. “Here we are,” he announces, his voice maybe a bit louder than necessary. “Home sweet home. Come on, let’s get settled in the living room.”

It’s not a very long hallway, but still, Martin is definitely ready to sit down by the time they shuffle awkwardly into the living room. There is, he’s relieved to see, plenty of seating available. Apart from two wing chairs flanking a window and backed by a bookcase, there’s a comfortable-looking sofa, a matching love seat, and an oversized armchair. There’s also someone standing next to the love seat, one hand pressed into its back. Jon stops abruptly and nearly sends Martin tumbling to the ground, his entire body stiffening.

“It’s all right,” Tim assures him. “Mostly.”

“ _Mostly?”_ Jon repeats incredulously.

The other smiles, but there’s something sad about it. “Hello, Jon.”

“Who— _what_ are you?” Jon demands. There’s an edge to his voice, something between anger and fear that stirs a feeling of protectiveness in Martin’s chest, which is not helpful at the moment since he can barely stand on his own, let alone stand between Jon and anything that might be trying to kill him.

“I’d really like to sit down right now, if nobody minds,” he says.

“Sit. Everybody,” Tim adds. He takes most of Martin’s weight and helps him over to the armchair, which turns out to be a recliner. “Put your feet up if you need to...Jon, Sasha, you sit too. And you,” he adds, gesturing to the other. “I’ll go make tea. Or break out the whiskey. We might need it.”

“Not a good idea for me,” Martin says softly. “Painkillers.”

“What, you don’t think the possibility of a good time outweighs the risks of an overdose? Kidding,” Tim adds quickly, holding up both hands as Jon turns a glare on him that makes the ones he directed at Martin and his work pale in comparison. “Only kidding.”

“Tim, sit down. We don’t need tea right now,” Sasha says, gesturing for everyone to either sit or calm down or both. “Maybe later.”

She takes a seat on the far end of the sofa, by the door; Tim comes over to sit next to her in the middle. The other moves carefully around the love seat and sits down on the end closest to where Martin sits. Jon remains standing, still glaring at the other.

“What are you?” he repeats.

“Human,” the other says. “As far as I can tell, anyway. At least as human as you are. But if you’re asking _who_ I am, which I think was your original question...I’m Martin Blackwood. From the future. And I’m here to help save the world.”


	8. Jon Prime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the utter terror of ordinary fears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I do an inordinate amount of Googling to get the correct 2016 statistics for this chapter? If you actually need to ask that question, you don't know me very well.
> 
> Also, if you spot (no pun intended) the _101 Dalmatians_ reference in this chapter (to the book, not the movie), tell me, because you get a cookie.

Jon stood in the shadows, watching the activity around the Institute, and specifically around the Archives. He knew he had to take care not to be seen...or worse, scented. Daisy still belonged to the Hunt, and she’d known him for a monster when they’d first met; no way would she not know him for one now, when his powers were so much stronger, his connection to the Eye so much more than it had been. If he was being honest, she still terrified him, and he wasn’t sure he could take her on, even now. She was out here...somewhere. He was sure of it, and it wouldn’t take any effort for him to Know exactly where she was and what she was thinking. Basira, too.

But he didn’t. For one thing, he’d promised Basira to stay out of her mind more than necessary, and even if that was a promise he’d made in the future, he was going to do her the courtesy of sticking to it. For another, he didn’t want to risk alerting anybody to his presence more than he had to. Instead, he balled the cuffs of the sweater into his fists and watched.

He was too late.

Even having managed to get a ride from two men in a removal van who’d cut his travel time essentially in half, and who thankfully hadn’t had any statements to tempt him—although he rather suspected their dog might have, had he only been able to understand it—it had still taken him a full five days to get to London, and another four hours to walk from where they had dropped him off to the Institute. And he’d arrived to find...this.

It didn’t take much of a stretch of the imagination to figure out what had happened. The police were everywhere; the ambulance crew had just finished packing everything back up; and if that wasn’t an ECDC truck over there, Jon was prepared to obtain a hat for the sole purpose of eating it. Jane Prentiss had attacked the Institute and this was the aftermath. He’d been too late to stop anything.

On the other hand—Jon took a deep breath. There had logically been no way to prevent this from happening. She’d followed Martin home hoping to get an easy way into the Archives—if she had infested an Archival Assistant, a thought too horrible for Jon to contemplate even after everything else he’d seen, she would have been inside and able to attack the Archives, attack _Jon,_ with relative ease—but she’d always known where the Institute was, and attacking it had probably always been her plan. Still, he had hoped to get there early enough that, together with Martin, he could go into the tunnels and spray down Jane Prentiss and her worms with no one being any the wiser, then regroup, use the tunnels as a base of operations, possibly punch Jurgen Leitner in the face, and bring the Archival team on board.

Instead, the amount of chaos stretching around them indicated that Jane Prentiss had attacked after all, that Gertrude Robinson’s body had been found, and that Jonah’s plan was well in progress. Sasha had been taken by the Stranger. Tim was going to slip farther and farther into his own well of anger. Jon’s past counterpart would slowly edge deeper and deeper into paranoia and it would be harder and harder for them to convince him of the truth. And Martin...

Hang on, though. Something wasn’t right.

Jon closed his eyes for a moment and tried to remember, tried to filter out all the undeniable chaos and stress that had built up over the last few years and _really_ think about the day of the attack, to sort through what had actually happened and what had blown itself up in his memory. The attack had been early in the day—Tim had been on his lunch break, Martin and Sasha doing their own work, Jon recording Andre Ramao’s statement, their first real brush with Salesa. Elias—it was safer to think of him that way with regards to the incident—had been happily engaged in his budgets. A Tuesday, a bright one. By the time Jon had bullied everyone into making their statements, it was tending towards dark...but more than that, most of the activity had died down. The police had come back the next day for the body, but except for a lone officer guarding the premises, everything was clear.

Which meant...

Jon felt a faint flicker of hope spring up in his chest. It was late; he didn’t have his phone anymore, and he’d never worn a wristwatch, so he didn’t know exactly what time it was, but he could guess. Or, with a little bit of effort, he could Know. He decided to do that, to reach out to the nearest mind, just for a second. He knew better than to do it for too long, though.

He found the ECDC woman grousing, tired, _wishing to go home. It had been a long day, and her boss wasn’t going to be happy about paying this much in overtime, although since it was both an after-hours call_ and _had gone on so long, he’d be charging the Magnus Institute extra. It was, after all, nearly midnight and—_

Jon withdrew from her mind the moment he had the time. _Midnight. An after-hours call._ Things _had_ changed, which probably meant that Martin, _his_ Martin, had triggered things somehow. Not optimal, Jon would grant you, they’d hoped to do things quietly, but...

He suddenly froze as his mind caught up with where his thoughts had been trending. _Martin._ Martin had to have made it to the Institute, to the Archives, but he wasn’t anywhere Jon could see him. Which meant, best-case scenario, he was still in the tunnels beneath the Institute, hiding from the Eye and anyone else who might be after him, waiting for Jon. Worst-case scenario...

Desperately, Jon reached out, but he knew it was hopeless. Even after the end of the world, even when he’d been arguably one of the two most powerful beings in the universe, he hadn’t been able to see into the tunnels, so if Martin was down there, Jon wouldn’t be able to reach him, even if he wasn’t protected from the Eye somehow. And if he wasn’t down there...

No. _No._ Jon had to believe Martin was all right. They couldn’t have come all this way only to be separated for good.

The problem was that, while Jon had absolute faith in Martin, he didn’t have much faith in the rest of the universe.

For a minute, he was tempted to find a way into the tunnels—one of the outside entrances Tim had always used—but one look around told him that was no good. The police were still everywhere. He didn’t know if they’d found Gertrude Robinson’s body yet, but undoubtedly they’d be crawling through those twisted passages. And even if they weren’t, there were enough cameras on the outside of the Institute that he might be caught on tape. The last thing he wanted was Elias wondering why he’d come back so quickly...or why he’d taken off the bandages, he added mentally, running his fingers reflexively over one of the scars.

No. No, as much as it hurt, he’d have to find another way in. He had to trust that Martin was all right. They _would_ be reunited, he vowed to himself. Wherever Martin was, Jon would find him. He just...might need some help.

New fears shot through him as he contemplated his next move. It was after hours. While that likely meant that Jon—past Jon—hadn’t been hurt, that wasn’t a guarantee; he’d begun leaving less and less as the weeks progressed, and depending on when this was, this might have been a night he stayed past dark. It might even have been after he read Jane Prentiss’ statement, in which case he might have fallen asleep. (Jon tried not to think about that night, about crashing on the cot without thinking and waking up tucked securely in a blanket cocoon with Martin asleep sitting up against the opposite corner, wrapped in a blanket himself. He’d felt guilty, both for taking Martin’s bed—the bed he himself had offered him—and for sleeping through the night; Martin wasn’t sleeping well, anyone could see that, and Jon had made it harder.) In which case...his past self might have been hurt as well, which would rather defeat the purpose.

But Martin—past Martin—what if he’d been hurt, too? Or worse, what if he hadn’t woken up? Jon didn’t think _his_ Martin would deliberately put his past self in danger; despite his sometimes self-destructive or at least self-sacrificial tendencies, he’d probably see his past self just like Jon saw his: as an entirely separate entity, a person to be protected. But if something followed him and he couldn’t catch it, what if something awful had happened?

Then there was Tim and Sasha. Granted, as far as Jon knew, neither of them had ever spent the night at the Archives. He remembered Sasha avowing that they gave her the willies...but was that the _real_ Sasha he remembered, or the Stranger, the Not-Them that had killed her and taken her place? Had the _real_ Sasha ever impulsively decided to stay, thinking it unfair Martin had to suffer alone? Had Tim ever doubled back to keep Martin company and buck his spirits up? Was it something they’d kept secret from their boss, fearing they’d get in trouble?

And oh, God, the Stranger. If that table had been delivered, if Sasha had run into Artifact Storage to escape the worms, if she’d been taken again...Jon hadn’t needed his powers to know that Martin was privately hoping that, in addition to the big picture _stop the apocalypse_ plan, they could save their friends. That Melanie would never get recruited to the Archives (and therefore never need to quit), that Tim would never become so angry and bitter and hateful, that Sasha would never be replaced in not only her physical body but in their memories. Truthfully, Jon was hoping that as well. He still felt more than a little guilt about what had happened to all three of them. If he was too late to stop that...

Jon took a deep breath, centering himself. Well, there was one way he could check on that, at least. Maybe he could check on all of that at once, but at least he could check out the latter. Drawing on a little bit of the Eye’s power, he reached out for Sasha James’ mind.

He almost gasped with relief when he touched it easily, the shape revealing it to be unequivocally the real thing. She was alive... _astonished to be, but alive nonetheless. She buzzed with adrenaline, which was probably a good thing, because she’d promised Jon she’d give him her statement about what had happened tonight as soon as the four of them were somewhere they could talk easily. They had a bit before they got to Tim’s place and then she’d have to figure out where the hell to start—God, she wished she could shake that feeling of being watched all the time!_

Jon withdrew his mind’s gaze hastily. That was a bit of a relief, at any rate. _The four of them._ That meant that all of them had made it out of the Archives alive...and Sasha, at least, _had_ been in there. Thank God she hadn’t gone up to Artifact Storage.

He shook himself. _Tim’s place._ Well, he knew where that was, unfortunately, having stalked Tim there during his paranoid fit. He could get there quickly enough. Hopefully, anyway; he didn’t exactly have any money on him, so hailing a cab or even taking the Underground was out of the question, which meant he’d have to leg it. It was doable. And since they were evidently driving there, they’d have time to talk before he arrived.

Jon set off on his walk. As he’d done for the entire journey, he stuck to the shadows, avoiding crowded streets, busy roads, and alleys where tramps might be hiding to ask for money, cigarettes...or worse.

Something in his bag buzzed and whirred. Without breaking stride, Jon slung the bag off his shoulders and fished out the recorder, which, sure enough, was on and waiting for him. He could feel the statement rising in him. He probably ought to stop to record it...

“Eight point seven million residents. The fourth most dangerous city in the United Kingdom. One of the most watched cities in the world. Everyone speaks the statistics,” he said into the mouthpiece of the recorder. “Few understand them. Few can feel the weight of those people around them, the fear and anticipation of violence, the sensation of every camera, every eye tracking their every move. Those who can are called paranoid, delusional, overly fearful. They are also right.

“It is a strange sensation to walk through a city that has never been safe to you and feel it even more so. Even stranger to feel it after...well, what we’ve lived through this past...how long has it been? Even I don’t know that. I never will. But as terrifying as those realms, those domains, those _hellscapes_ were, they are as nothing compared to an ordinary spring night in London, circa 2016. _This_ night.

“A clock tower chimes in the distance, counting off a quarter ‘til. The time men used to call the _Witching Hour._ If only they knew what those words could mean. Night falls and in some places the city’s lights outshine the stars, while in others the sky is completely hidden behind close-gathered roofs or billowing, choking smoke. There are those in this city who couldn’t name a single star if you labeled the chart for them and those who haven’t seen one for years. Some are wistful. Some are watchful. Some are angry. Some are pure danger.

“In the domains, we were safe, to a degree. The domains could only harm us so far as we allowed them to. We were the Watchers, not the Watched, and our fear fed nothing. They were not _for_ us, and so could not hurt us unless we gave them permission. And we navigated them together, and we survived them together. And even when we reached London, there was so little that could truly harm us...until the end. And we knew what we faced, or thought we knew what we faced, and whatever else happened, we faced it together.

“But this is a London that cares nothing for our permission. This is a London that does not belong to one power, or any powers. This is a London that still belongs only to itself. From the Ritz to the Anchor and Crown, as the song says, London is still its own and belongs to itself and its people. And it does not fear the Watcher, not yet. There is no protection to be had here, save one’s own awareness.

“There, the further from the Eye’s seat of power we were, the safer—in theory—we were. Here, nowhere is safe. It may be that the _only_ place of true safety is the very tunnels I cannot yet enter, the very place from whence Fear plans to rise but will not, cannot, _must_ not. The tunnels hold death, yes, and fear and terror and many of the worst memories from the time of before...but they may be the key to our safety now.

“Meanwhile, the very streets seek to trip, the roads seek to confuse, the denizens seek to gain their own selfish ends at the expense of any who stands in their way. We cannot, _I_ cannot let them. Death does not wait here, only those who seek to invoke it. Fear does not bind this city, Fear does not own its streets, and yet fear cannot be disregarded, for to ignore it, to deny its existence, is to invite its cause. The only way to stay safe is to stay focused, to concentrate, and to trust that at the end of the road the journey may come to a safe close. Or at least a resting place, a shelter from the storm.”

Jon fell silent and took a deep breath, closing his eyes for only a moment as he lowered the tape recorder. When he opened them again, he was astonished to see that he was standing in front of Tim’s house—someplace he hadn’t seen in years but still recognized. His car, or the car he’d once owned anyway, sat in the driveway, and there was a light on inside, which meant they were still up. He actually hadn’t realized he was still walking, let alone that he was walking in the direction he meant to head. Either the Eye or sheer dumb luck had protected him from being run over as he crossed the streets.

He tucked the recorder away in his bag, then headed up the walk to the front door. Hopefully they weren’t in the middle of recording their statements, he thought idly as he knocked, as firmly as he could, on the door.

A few moments passed, and then the door opened, exposing Tim, who yelped in surprise when he saw Jon standing there. Jon managed a smile.

“Hello, Tim,” he said. “May I come in?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Jon deliberately quotes is "London Pride" by Noël Coward. The end of his statement is taken, not necessarily intentionally (on Jon's part anyway), from "Perhaps Love" by John Denver.


	9. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon does not want to believe any of this, but he doesn't really have a choice in the matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a lot of people have been excited about this chapter. _I've_ been excited about this chapter. I hope it lives up to the anticipation.
> 
> A note on timing: A lot of the next few chapters are going to overlap, timeline-wise. That's what happens when you split the party, so to speak; events happen simultaneously, and if you're sticking to one POV per chapter, you get a lot of back-and-forth while things go on in different rooms. So this chapter picks up a few minutes before the end of the last chapter, showing us what's going on in Tim's house before the knock on his door. Hope that doesn't make things too confusing!

“Sit down, boss,” Tim says insistently.

“Jon, please,” Martin—the _real_ Martin—says, his voice soft. “We’ll explain, just...sit down. Please.”

Jon doesn’t want to sit down. He wants to stay standing, to put himself between this—this _thing_ wearing his assistant’s face, his _skin—_ and the three people he’s already nearly lost tonight. But he responds to the _please_ and sits, slowly, never taking his eyes off the creature claiming to be Martin Blackwood from the future.

It’s a good likeness, he has to admit. The...creature or whatever it is looks almost identical to his—the _real_ Martin, down to the odd twist in one set of cables on his sweater (not that Jon’s spent a lot of time staring at Martin or his sweater, of course, only that it’s not quite even and the oddity catches his attention) and that one errant curl that never seems to do what he wants it to. But this creature is also...muted is the best way Jon can think of to describe it. As if someone has turned down the saturation on a picture, or coated the whole thing in a grey wash.

“How long were you waiting for us?” Tim asks the other Martin. It seems safer to think of him that way.

“Not long,” Other-Martin answers. “Maybe a minute.”

“Really? It took you that long to get here? Must’ve been a hell of a complicated route.”

Other-Martin gives a soft snort of laughter without a lot of humor in it. “Time in those corridors doesn’t follow the same rules. As far as I could tell, I was only in there five, ten minutes, tops.”

“Tim, you _invited_ this here?” Jon exclaims.

Tim shrugs. “It seemed safer than leaving him in the tunnels under the Institute. You know, what with the worms and the police and everything. Hard enough to explain to us what’s going on, but someone who doesn’t deal with this every day?”

Other-Martin tilts his head slightly, but his gaze is directed at Jon. It makes him feel uneasy, for reasons he can’t quite explain. He tries to bring his chin up defiantly, but he’s aware of the fact that he’s terrified and wonders if this creature can smell fear. “And you expect us to just...believe you. That you’re—that you’re Martin come back from the future. There is no scientific explanation for time travel—”

“There probably is, actually, but that’s got nothing to do with how I came back,” Other-Martin interrupts. “And no. I don’t expect you to just... _believe_ me. Not like that. I mean, especially not right now. I know you well enough to know you’re pushing the skeptic thing as hard as you are because you _know_ it’s real and you’re afraid. You can _feel_ something watching you when you’re recording the statements, the real ones, the ones that you have to do on the tape, yeah? That’s what you told me. So you believe in the supernatural and the paranormal and all that, but that doesn’t mean you _want_ to. And it sure doesn’t mean you’re going to believe I am who I say I am without some kind of proof.”

For just a moment, Jon is speechless. He’s never told _anyone_ about that persistent feeling, or his belief that the “difficult” statements are actually true encounters. He certainly wouldn’t have told Martin, although if he’s being honest, Martin is probably the only one he would have trusted with that knowledge. To hear it pour out of someone else’s mouth is startling, to say the least. It’s not really _proof,_ of course, but it’s certainly enough to crack the shell of skepticism Jon hides behind.

“Wait,” Sasha interrupts. “You’re saying those statements...the ones that won’t go on the laptop...they’re _real?_ Like, they actually happened?”

“They did, yeah. I know they’re hard to verify, but, well, that’s the thing about the paranormal. Ghosts don’t leave a lot of physical evidence. And...well, people see what they want to see, and they rationalize out a lot of things they don’t.” Other-Martin sighs. “It used to drive Basira nuts.”

“Basira?” Tim asks.

“Ah—you haven’t met her yet, I don’t think. Unless you...no, she _was_ one of the officers on the scene when all this happened in my timeline, but honestly, I had a hard time concentrating on who I talked to that night and who I talked to later. I was too busy worrying about—” Other-Martin snaps off the sentence. “She’s a cop. One of the officers assigned to the investigation at the Institute. In our timeline, she...eventually got hired to work in the Archives. It’s—”

“A long story?” Martin says, sounding tired.

Other-Martin holds up his hands. “I know, I know. I _promise,_ we’ll explain everything as soon as—”

“We?” Jon and Sasha say in unison.

“I didn’t come back alone. Well, I mean—we came back separately, but I’m not the only one who came back. We were warned we’d probably end up in different places, though.”

Tim lifts an eyebrow and grins. “Ooh, did you arrange a rendezvous at a secret meeting point? Send one another coded messages?”

“Tim,” Sasha hisses, elbowing him.

Other-Martin smiles, a little wistfully. “I wouldn’t say that, but...the plan we worked out before we came back involved us being at the Archives, so we were going to meet there. I have no doubt they’re on their way there.”

“And when they get there?” Martin asks quietly. “When they show up and see...everything that’s happening? What then? Did you have a—a backup plan?”

“Not really. But my guess? They’ll come looking for me. Or at least for you all.”

Jon tenses. “Looking for us? Why?”

“We were always planning to bring you all into it, after we...took care of Jane Prentiss. This wasn’t...exactly how we planned to _do_ that, it got a bit out of hand, but I had to improvise, and I didn’t do it well.” Other-Martin gives another soft huff of not-all-that-amused laughter. “I’m quite literally lost without them. But I don’t doubt for a minute that if they can’t find me, they’ll come to you all.”

Jon is torn. On the one hand, he wants to shout at this creature, demand to know what its game actually is, chase it from the building, and keep it from coming anywhere near his assistants ever again. On the other hand...the more he talks, the easier it is to believe what he’s saying. Also, this isn’t Jon’s house and it’s not exactly his place to deny access to it.

“How did you get in here, anyway?” Jon decides a change of subject might clear his mind.

“Michael,” Other-Martin answers.

“That thing that attacked Sasha?” Jon exclaims. “You’re _friends_ with it?”

“Oh, God, no,” Other-Martin says with another laugh that has no humor in it. “Michael hates anything to do with the Archives. Not necessarily without reason. I just managed to talk him into a temporary truce. Mostly I told him I knew what would happen to him and if he didn’t want to be utterly _destroyed,_ he’d best help me out. I think that’s the only favor I’m actually going to get out of him, though.”

Sasha rubs her temples with her fingers. “Wait, wait. If he hates us so much, why would he tell me how to _save_ everyone?”

Other-Martin hesitates. Beside Jon, Martin sighs deeply. “Is this another ‘telling you might be dangerous until someone who can protect you shows up’ thing?” In response to the startled look Jon shoots his way, Martin gestures at his doppelganger. “That’s what he keeps saying when I push too hard.”

“Look, I _know_ it’s frustrating, but it’s also serious. You might be okay tonight, but...I’m just reluctant to risk it until—”

A firm rapping sound interrupts him. Sasha glances at Tim. “Somebody’s knocking at your door.”

Martin hums something under his breath, which brings that sad, wistful smile to Other-Martin’s face for a second. Tim gets up. “I’ll be right back. Try not to kill Martin Prime while I’m gone.”

“Really, Tim? _Star Trek_ reference?” Sasha snorts.

“How about you? You understood that,” Tim shoots back at her before disappearing down the hallway.

Jon wonders whether to demand an explanation or not when a yelp comes from the direction of the doorway. He’s on his feet before he can think about it, nerves thrumming with adrenaline, not sure if he wants to launch himself down the hall to drag Tim to safety or stay where he is to protect Martin and Sasha. Sasha and...their guest rise from their seats, too, all of them tense for a moment. There’s the sound of voices, too low to be distinguishable, and then, unmistakably, Tim’s laughter, and Jon relaxes a little bit. Not hurt, at least. Then Tim comes back into the room, bringing with him a person who takes the breath from Jon’s lungs.

It’s _him._

Or at least, the tiny part of his brain that insists on remaining skeptical says, it’s someone who looks like him—albeit a bit less like him than the other Martin looks like his— _their_ Martin. His hair is longer than Jon is wearing his right now—more like the length he wore it in uni, if he’s being honest—pulled back into a sort of half-ponytail and far more liberally streaked with grey. His face and hands are dotted with round scars, and Jon’s stomach lurches as he realizes they’re probably from the worms. There are probably more scars, but they’re impossible to see, as he’s draped in a dark green sweater several sizes too big for him. He looks weary, like he’s carrying far greater a burden than one would reasonably expect to fit in the pack on his back, but he’s also smiling a little. It’s Jon’s smile, that’s for sure, just...sadder, somehow.

He stops dead just inside the room. All the tension seems to drain from him. “Martin,” he gasps.

The other Martin’s face lights up. “Jon?”

Jon swears he doesn’t see his counterpart move. One moment he’s standing just inside the doorway and the next he’s in front of the sofa, and the two of them are embracing tightly. The other Jon’s bag slips to the floor with a soft thud, but neither of them seem to notice it.

“Oh, thank God,” Other-Jon chokes out. The words tumble out in a semipanicked, breathless rush. “I couldn’t _find_ you, I tried to use the—to Know where you were, but it was—I c-couldn’t see you and I was _worried,_ I tried to tell myself you would be fine, but I—I didn’t think about—I should have realized whatever hid you from the Eye would mean I wouldn’t be able to see you either, but I thought since it was you I’d—”

“Jon, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Other-Martin says, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Are you all right? You’re not hurt?” Other-Jon pulls back enough that he can look up into Other-Martin’s face, but doesn’t let go of him. If anything, his grip seems to tighten just a little.

“I’m fine,” Other-Martin assures him. “I’m okay. Are you all right?”

“I am now.” Other-Jon pulls him into another tight hug.

Jon feels a bit like he’s watching something he shouldn’t be privy to, but at the same time, he can’t look away. Partly because the reunion is so compelling, partly due to what feels like the same thing that grips him when he’s reading those statements, but mostly because he does _not_ want to see the look on Tim’s face right now, thank you very much. And he’s not sure he can look at Martin without making a fool of himself.

Whatever else happens in the future, he finds himself thinking, at least he loosens up enough that he can express how he _actually_ feels instead of trying to hide behind a professional facade. Because this is pretty much how he wanted to react when he saw Martin emerge from the quarantine tent—to wrap him up in a hug, to tell him how glad he was that he was safe, to _reassure_ himself Martin was alive and whole. It’s why he was so quick to help him walk. He almost envies his future self this freedom, the ability to just wrap his arms around Martin and _know_ he’s all right. Whatever else they’ve gone through—and from their appearances, they’ve been through a lot—at least he has this.

He realizes the direction his thoughts are trending and clenches his teeth, mentally grasping the last bit of skepticism in his mind with both hands. He still can’t be completely sure these two are _really_ them from the future. Yes, they look a lot like him and Martin, sound like them, but...what was it his cousin used to say? Correlation does not imply causation. There could be a perfectly normal explanation for this—a non-supernatural one, one that doesn’t involve time travel or the _end of the world_ or anything like that. He’s just got to figure out what that explanation is.

Tim, naturally, is the one to break the silence. “So!” he says, settling onto the sofa and stretching out his arms along the back. “Should we be expecting Tim Prime and Sasha Prime to come along any minute now?”

“No,” Other-Jon says quietly, drawing back from Other-Martin with visible reluctance. “No, it’s only us.”

He turns to look at Tim and Sasha, and Jon finds himself torn between the desire to shift and stand between them and the fear of leaving Martin exposed if he does so. He takes a small step forward and speaks up, drawing the attention back to himself. “How do we _know_ you’re really from the future? What proof is there that you’re really who you say you are?”

“Well, we believe them,” Tim says. “Or at least we believe _him.”_ He waves at Other-Martin.

“Not good enough, I’m afraid,” Other-Jon says before Jon can. There’s a faint hint of amusement in his tone. “You’re all rather too credulous. It’s easy to convince _you._ He’s far less ready to believe on flimsy evidence. Proof, that’s what’s needed.”

Tim tilts his head sideways, as if considering that. “He’s certainly got you pegged, Boss.”

Jon narrows his eyes. He rather suspects he’s being mocked, and he doesn’t like it in the slightest. “If that’s the best you can come up with—” he begins.

“ _A Guest for Mister Spider,_ ” Other-Martin interrupts.

Jon’s entire body goes still with horror as the memories come rushing in, not that they’re ever far from his mind. He fights very hard to keep it from showing on his face, however, and says as evenly as he can, “I beg your pardon?”

“Your grandmother bought it in the bargain bin a charity shop when you were about eight.” Other-Martin’s eyes seem to stare right through Jon, as if they’re seeing him all those years ago, walking down the streets unknowingly with his nose buried in a book. “It was your first encounter with the supernatural. Your first encounter with the name Jurgen Leitner. It’s why you came to work at the Institute in the first place.”

The words are as gentle and as inexorable as falling snow, and just as chilling. Jon’s very soul seems to freeze. He stares at the other Martin without really seeing him, without really seeing anything except the darkness within that door, the boy whose name he can’t remember vanishing in its depths, the growing smears of red on black and white drawings...

“Jon? Jon, are you all right?” Martin sounds worried, but he also sounds very far away.

Other-Martin looks slightly embarrassed as he turns to look at Other-Jon. “Too far?”

“No—no, I-I think that was...just about right.” Other-Jon reaches out and presses two fingers to Jon’s shoulder, pushing him downward. “Sit down and breathe, Archivist.”

It’s the word _Archivist_ that pushes through the fog in Jon’s brain, oddly enough. It at least serves to remind him that he’s not actually eight years old anymore. He draws in a deep, shuddering gasp of air and sits down rather heavily, jostling both Sasha and Tim.

Other-Martin and Other-Jon sit down as well. Jon notices, with the part of his brain not currently paging through the Owner’s Manual to the Human Body for the instructions on breathing, that Other-Jon rests his hand on top of Other-Martin’s. Other-Martin strokes Other-Jon’s thumb with his own in slow, careful strokes. It’s a gesture that speaks of intimacy and tenderness, and a jealousy curls in his stomach that he has no idea what to do with. Other-Jon’s free hand taps on his thigh as his eyes flutter closed, and for a moment, Jon assumes it’s an idle fidget until his brain latches onto the regularity of it and realizes what it is. He’s counting out the seconds to regulate his own breathing.

All the fight goes out of Jon in that instant. He knows when he’s beaten. This other who bears his face _is_ him, not some stranger or monster or evil being. Which means the other must be Martin. They _are_ from the future. They’re telling the truth.

He’s not going to admit that out loud, not just yet, but they slide from being Others to being Primes, as Tim called them, in his mind.

After a moment, Jon Prime squeezes Martin Prime’s fingers briefly, exhales, and opens his eyes. “I...I suppose you have more than a few questions.”

“You could say that,” Tim agrees.

“So where do we start?” Sasha asks, the last word nearly being swallowed in a yawn.

Jon is burning with curiosity, but he also recognizes that Sasha is tired, and likely Tim as well. And Martin...Martin must be absolutely wiped out. His own energy, the adrenaline that’s been driving him since he saw the emergency lights at the Institute, is starting to flag. It’s late.

“As much as I’d like to know what the hell is going on here, I think most of it can wait until tomorrow, when we’re all fresh,” he says, putting as much authority into his words as he can. “I need to get your statements before you start forgetting the details.”

“I don’t know if that’s possible,” Sasha says, not quite under her breath.

Martin Prime snorts. “It’s not. Best to get your statements done now, though. Trust me.”

Tim raises an eyebrow. “I think Martin should go first.”

Jon turns to look fully at Martin. He’s visibly exhausted, but he nods, eyes fixed unwaveringly on Jon.

Jon exhales. “All right, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, fine, I admit it, I'm on the "Carlos and Jon are cousins" bandwagon, which I didn't even realize WAS a bandwagon until I saw a mention of it on someone's fanart; I thought it was just a quiet little weird private headcanon of mine, but nope, apparently there are many of us.
> 
> The tune Martin hums (in my head anyway) is, fittingly enough, "Somebody's Knocking at Your Door," which is a gospel song.


	10. Statement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Statements of Martin Blackwood, Timothy Stoker, Sasha James, and Martin Blackwood Prime regarding the infestation by the being formerly known as Jane Prentiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2021! May it treat you better than 2020 did, regardless of how 2020 actually treated you. Everyone deserves to be treated better. 
> 
> This chapter was originally written as a standard prose chapter, but I was struggling with formatting a later chapter like that and decided, hey, why not redo it as an actual statement? So here we are. I hope it works the way I want it to.
> 
> Also! For anyone who was confused by the username/name change: I recently (well, relatively recently) came out as genderqueer, and in the last month or so I decided to try out a new name IRL that was more, well, gender-neutral. The username I was previously using on AO3 (and Tumblr, and Twitter, and Discord, and...you get the idea) had a nickname in it that was rooted in what my adaptive-adoptive brother once referred to as my "mostly-dead name" (I'm still using it at work, mostly because I'm still trying to figure out how to change it in the system, but literally nowhere else if I can help it), so I decided to change it here as well. Hi, I'm Ollie! Nice to meet you all. ^_^

[CLICK]

[DIALOG IS SLIGHTLY MUFFLED, LIKE SOMETHING IS COVERING THE MICROPHONE]

**SASHA**

Do you have a tape recorder lying around somewhere?

**TIM**

Why would I?

**SASHA**

Dunno, but if Jon’s going to get our statements…I mean, you’ll need something to record them with.

**PAST ARCHIVIST**

_(under his breath)_ Damn. _(out loud)_ I can’t believe I’ve _already_ grown so used to that thing being at hand that I forgot I don’t have one with me. Blast. I don’t want to wait until tomorrow, but…

**ARCHIVIST**

I’ve got one. Several, I dare say. Give me a moment to find an empty one.

[SOUNDS OF FABRIC RUSTLING, A ZIPPER BEING UNZIPPED. NEXT WORDS ARE LESS MUFFLED]

**MARTIN**

Here. This one’s ready to go.

**PAST ARCHIVIST**

How sensitive is the microphone?

**MARTIN**

It’ll pick up what it needs to pick up.

**ARCHIVIST**

I suppose you’d like the rest of us to step out for a minute while you do this.

**PAST ARCHIVIST**

…

No. No, I—it can’t hurt to have everyone here, I suppose.

**ARCHIVIST**

…Are you sure? I know you don’t usually like an audience when you’re recording statements.

**PAST ARCHIVIST**

If we’re all here when the statements are made, we won’t wear out the tape with everyone listening to it trying to get an idea of what they missed. And I can just get everyone’s in one go.

**MARTIN**

_(very low, barely audible to the tape)_ It might help him if you’re here.

**ARCHIVIST**

Hmm.

[CREAKING SPRINGS, LIKE SOMEONE SETTLING BACK ONTO A SOFA OR LOVE SEAT]

**PAST ARCHIVIST**

Right.

_(deep breath)_ Statement of Martin Blackwood, Archival assistant at the Magnus Institute, regarding the…infestation by the being formerly known as Jane Prentiss. Recorded direct from subject, third May—

**TIM**

Fourth. It’s just gone midnight.

**PAST ARCHIVIST**

Fourth May, 2016. Statement begins. _(softer)_ Whenever you’re ready.

**PAST MARTIN**

Okay, well, first off, I should…probably tell you that I’ve actually known _he_ was around for a few days. More than a week, actually. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know _what_ to say, but I—I did know. We’ve talked some, so I knew who he was and I knew Jane Prentiss was nearby, but he kept telling me I’d be safe, that the worms wouldn’t attack after dark, that—that I wasn’t what they were after. So I didn’t really worry about it too much, except to keep an eye open during the day.

Tonight…last night, whatever…after all of you left, I went to find him, and he was…agitated. He told me things were progressing more rapidly than he expected, and he was going to need my help. He’d just got finished explaining what it was he needed me to do when I heard Tim calling my name. I went out and found him and Sasha there and—I tried to get them to leave, honestly. I wasn’t altogether sure about all of this and I didn’t want them to get hurt. But they insisted on staying, and kept asking me what was going on.

I—I _think_ I would have told them. Over dinner. Tim put stuff in the break room so we’d have it for dinner, we were going to eat in the Archives and I was going to…say something, maybe. But when we got back to the Archives, we heard noises coming from your office, and when Tim called out to find out who was there, he told us to get into the document storage room, right away. We were on our way in there when a whole bunch of worms came… _pouring_ out the door of your office. We made it in safe, luckily, but—well, it meant I didn’t have time to do what I was supposed to do first, so we were trapped.

I told Tim and Sasha what I knew—that he was me from the future, that he was here to stop the world ending, and a little bit about what his plan was. Then Sasha mentioned she could hear…something.

**PAST ARCHIVIST**

Something?

**PAST MARTIN**

Singing. In the walls. She said she could hear singing.

I told her she shouldn’t be able to. That room’s soundproof. Future Me told me that. But she insisted she could. She said it was louder near one of the walls, the one that wasn’t by the door, and—and she prodded at it. Well, she kind of hit it. We thought it was an exterior wall, but her hand went through it. It was just plastered over and—more worms came out. Not many, but enough. I’ve been kind of storing fire extinguishers in there—I-I was hiding them, I know it doesn’t make sense, but I just felt like I had to hide them from the worms—so I grabbed one and sprayed until the worms stopped moving.

We grabbed a couple each and went through the new hole. It probably wasn’t safe to stay in that room anymore, and anything was better than being trapped, you know? I didn’t know how many worms might be down in that hole or if they’d all come out into the Archives, but I thought if we could at least slow them down in the walls, we’d have a chance to get back out into the main Archives and stop Jane Prentiss once and for all.

Turned out there were—there _are_ tunnels down there. It’s dark, unsurprisingly. Sasha had one free hand, so I gave her my torch—I’ve been carrying it around wherever I go—and she shined it to show us which way to go. We started looking for a way back out. At least where the worms might have got in. The trouble is, the corridors all twist in on themselves—you go a few steps and nothing makes sense anymore. We got around this one corner and there were a _bunch_ more worms, and they were moving a lot faster. We fought them off, but in all the chaos and confusion I fell behind, and it was just me in the dark. Tim and Sasha were gone.

I tried calling out to them, but it’s—it’s dead down there. It’s like the walls just swallow sound. It didn’t even echo. I realized they couldn’t hear me, and obviously I didn’t have a light anymore, so I just made my best guess at where they might have gone and kept going until I found a set of steps. I climbed up them and found a trap door overhead. I pushed it open, and…well, I was in the Archives.

And I found Jane Prentiss.

She—she smiled at me. Like she knew me. Well, she _did_ know me, I guess. She spread out her hands and asked me if I could…if I could hear the singing. I didn’t answer her—well, not with words, anyway. I still had the fire extinguishers, so I tried spraying her with them. All it did was slow her down for a second, but it at least gave me some breathing room. I managed to get some distance between us.

The floor was _seething_ with worms. It was…it was disgusting, frankly. I sprayed a bunch of them and stomped more, but I knew I’d never be able to get them all before—well, before they got me, so I went back to Plan A. I grabbed a trashcan and threw a bunch of the statements out of the Discredited section into it, just shoved them in there until the thing was good and full, and then I cleared a space under one of the sensors and set it down. I pulled out the lighter Future Me gave me and managed to get it going and lit the whole stack on fire.

It went up pretty quick, but…well, I had to set down the fire extinguishers to do all that, and the worms got too close. They came at me and—you know, getting bitten by those things _hurt._ I know that’s probably really obvious, but it did. The fire alarm went off about then, but the noise didn’t seem to faze them. And then the system kicked in. I guess there was enough smoke to set it off. And there was this—this _scream—_ like tens of thousands of things without mouths screaming all at once. That’s the last thing I remember before I blacked out.

**PAST ARCHIVIST**

…

Why the Discredited section?

**PAST MARTIN**

What?

**PAST ARCHIVIST**

Why did you specifically burn statements from the Discredited section?

**PAST MARTIN**

Well, I didn’t—

I didn’t want to risk burning something important. The Discredited ones we knew for a fact were false, they were all the ones you could…record normally, so I figured…if I was going to set a fire, it would be best to use those, you know? Ones that wouldn’t—wouldn’t be important later.

**PAST ARCHIVIST**

No, that—that makes sense. Thank you, Martin.

[CLICK]

* * *

[CLICK]

**ARCHIVIST**

See? There’s plenty left on the tape.

**PAST ARCHIVIST**

Hmph.

Were you two together the whole time you were down there?

**SASHA**

Yeah.

**PAST ARCHIVIST**

Then I think…

_(clears throat)_ Statement of Timothy Stoker and Sasha James, Archival assistants at the Magnus Institute, regarding the infestation by the being formerly known as Jane Prentiss. Recorded direct from subjects, fourth May, 2016. Statement begins. In your own time.

**TIM**

We didn’t notice Martin wasn’t with us at first. Not until I asked him a question and didn’t get an answer. We tried to retrace our steps, but…like he said, those tunnels don’t make a lot of sense. I thought we were totally out of luck until we came around a corner and ran slap bang into him, or at least we thought we did. I asked him if he was all right and he wanted to know what the hell we were doing there. He sounded scared and angry and…that’s when we realized it wasn’t our Martin.

**SASHA**

I told him about the wall being hollow. He said he knew that, but he’d hoped we’d have the sense to stay put, so I explained about hitting the wall because I could hear that creepy singing from behind it even though it was supposed to be an exterior wall. He got kind of upset, actually, and asked if I’d been bitten, but I hadn’t. The worms might have been faster down there than they were in the Archives, and quieter and more aggressive, but we’d managed to kill them all whenever we ran into them, so it was all right there to a point.

We asked him how to get out of there. He said he didn’t know _exactly,_ but that there was a trapdoor leading into the Archives, he didn’t remember precisely where in the Archives it led to. He said if we followed the corridors, we’d eventually wind up at the steps, but that we’d have to be careful.

**TIM**

That’s when we heard the scream. Scared the hell out of both of us, really. Martin Prime barely flinched, though. Actually looked kind of relieved. He told us that meant Jane Prentiss was dead, which probably meant the CO2 system had been triggered, so we needed to find Martin and get the hell out of the Archives. I asked him what he was going to do, and he said he supposed he’d just stay down in the tunnels, now that they were worm-free, and dodge the police if/when they came down investigating. Find a room or something. Like we were talking about the Ritz instead of what I’m pretty sure is the remains of the old Millbank Prison complex.

And then the door appeared.

**PAST ARCHIVIST**

Appeared?

**SASHA**

I swear, Jon, it wasn’t there before. One minute we were standing at a completely unremarkable bend in a hall, and then—my hand was getting tired, so I switched the fire extinguisher and the torch, and when the beam moved it caught on this yellow door right behind Martin Prime. I asked him if that was a safe room to go into, and he turned around and _glared_ at it, then knocked. And…

Michael came out. He giggled, in that creepy way he did before, and asked us if we were lost. Then he held the door open and said he could show us the way. I—I was about to go in, but Martin Prime held out his arm to stop me and said, “They don’t need your way. Leave them alone.”

Michael seemed surprised, and then—I don’t know. Worried, maybe? A little angry? And then he smiled again. It’s _really_ disconcerting. He said, “Well, _you’ve_ been marked, anyway, so _you_ can come through safely enough, if you want to. Will you do that for them?”

**TIM**

I told him to go. I said that if the police were going to be there, the last thing they needed was to see _two_ Martin Blackwoods, you know? Especially looking almost perfectly identical and all. Don’t want the police thinking they’re seeing double, they’ll have us all arrested for being so drunk it affects reality, right? I asked if he knew where I lived. He said yes, so I said we’d meet him here. He hesitated, and then he nodded and followed Michael through the door—and it just disappeared. Like it had never been there.

We tried to retrace our steps, but “back” doesn’t mean all that much down there, really. Finally we found another door. It wasn’t yellow, so we opened it, thinking it might be the way out, but…no. Just a small room. Square. Dust covering everything. Cardboard boxes full of cassette tapes.

**PAST ARCHIVIST**

That’s where you found her.

**SASHA**

Yes. She was sat on a wooden chair in the middle of the room. No worms. No cobwebs. Just an old corpse. I recognized Gertrude Robinson right away. She was slumped forward, but I could see that her mouth was open, like she was trying to tell us something. Almost dropped the torch. Luckily I didn’t. We ran like hell and found the trapdoor not long after that and…well, you know the rest.

**PAST ARCHIVIST**

Mm.

…

How did Gertrude Robinson die?

**SASHA**

I didn’t see. Didn’t really look, and anyway, it’s been almost a year. Cause of death could have been almost anything at this point.

**PAST ARCHIVIST**

Tim?

**TIM**

…I don’t know. Not for sure. I mean, it was dark and Sasha was the one with the torch, and all I cared about was that she hadn’t been eaten alive by worms or whatever, but—

**PAST ARCHIVIST**

_Tim!_ **How did she die?**

**TIM**

She was shot, okay? In the chest. Three times that I could see.

**PAST ARCHIVIST**

…Right. Right. Thank you, Tim.

[CLICK]

* * *

[CLICK]

**MARTIN**

I’m not altogether sure that’s a good idea.

**PAST ARCHIVIST**

_(tired and testy)_ I need a complete picture of what happened tonight. That includes you.

**PAST MARTIN**

Can’t it wait until morning?

**ARCHIVIST**

_(also sounding tired, but more resigned than annoyed)_ Best get it over with tonight.

**PAST ARCHIVIST**

Statement of Martin Blackwood…Prime…er, time-traveler…regarding _et cetera._ Go.

**MARTIN**

In my defense, none of this was supposed to happen like this.

I’ve been lurking in the Archives for the last two weeks. Mostly trying to get my bearings again—I haven’t been down there in ages, really—but also trying to avoid being seen by any of you. Haven’t been very successful, although fortunately, the only one who never caught me during the day was—well, _your_ Martin, so I could play it off. Our plan was to wait until Jon made it to the Archives, and then the two of us were going to tackle the worms while they were still under the Institute, clear out the tunnels, and clue the rest of you in. Until then, I was just waiting.

I’ve also been trying to help you all, as best I can anyway. I discovered, kind of by accident, that I can still get a feeling for what statements are real and what aren’t. It’s not as strong as it was when I was still an Archival assistant, before…everything happened…but one or two of the more powerful ones still speak to me. I didn’t dare put them on anyone’s desk because I couldn’t risk getting caught, or seen in the same place as your Martin, and I can’t…fade into the background like I used to. So I’ve just been kind of clustering them together in one of the corner shelves.

The thing was…well, I panicked. I admit that. Tim caught me out this morning and I realized after we talked that if he didn’t know I wasn’t your Martin, he’d figure it out quickly enough. And to make matters worse, he’d told me to take the statement I was holding to you. I was going to just leave it on your desk, but you were just getting back from your…meeting when I walked in. I’m sure I made it far too obvious that I wasn’t who I was claiming to be. I couldn’t run the risk of one of you telling…anybody I was here, so I figured I had to make a move. I thought if I cleared out the worms quickly enough, I could just wait about in the tunnels until Jon turned up and we’d go from there.

As soon as your Martin came to talk to me after you’d all left— _(pointedly)_ we _thought_ —I told him the basics of what I had in mind. He wanted to help, but…well, the whole point of all this was to keep all of you safe, so I told him the best way he could help was as backup. I gave him the lighter—honestly, I didn’t realize I was the one who had it—and told him to set up something that would burn enough to trigger the fire system if need be, and that if any worms got past me, to light the fire and lock himself in the storage room and _stay there_ until the worms were all dead. He was starting to ask me more questions, I think, but then Tim called out and we had to scatter.

I couldn’t really hear what was going on, but I thought I heard Tim leaving, so I went into your office. The wall behind that shelving unit is another one that was just plastered over, which I’m sure you know by now, so I just kind of shoved them out of the way and, well, slammed my way through. And there the worms were.

I was just getting the fire extinguishers ready when I heard Tim yell out. I shouted for him to get back in the storage room—I assumed your Martin was with him—and went after the worms with everything I had. I could hear the squirming and—I knew that wasn’t good. In the tunnels, they’re a lot quieter, they don’t make that…noise. They’re faster, too. Something in the Archives slows them down. I’d been hoping the infestation would be small enough that I could handle it myself, but I realized a lot of them got past me and I was just hoping your Martin had been able to get the fire going. I didn’t realize how many worms got past me until I ran into Tim and Sasha later.

[A FULL FIVE SECONDS OF SILENCE]

**PAST ARCHIVIST**

Did you remember it?

**MARTIN**

Sorry?

**PAST ARCHIVIST**

The statement. Jane Prentiss’s statement—the one you brought me earlier. Did you remember it? Is that how you knew it was…real?

**MARTIN**

…Yes and no. I knew we had that statement—I mean, you said when I first made my statement about being trapped that you thought there might’ve been a statement from her somewhere in the Archives, and I remembered we’d found it in our time, but that’s—I didn’t know which one I had on hand when Tim found me. I just…it _felt_ real.

**PAST ARCHIVIST**

How could you possibly _not_ have known whose statement you were holding? The names are right at the top.

**MARTIN**

…

_(faintly, as if the word is forcing itself from between tightly clenched teeth)_ _Fuck._

_(in a normal tone of voice)_ I couldn’t see it.

**TIM**

…Why did none of you stop me from making stupid comments?

**SASHA**

I’m sorry, is there a time you’re _not_ making stupid comments?

**TIM**

Why didn’t _you_ say anything?

**MARTIN**

Honestly? It’s been a long time since I heard you joke with me. I kind of missed it.

**TIM**

Christ. What kind of person do I turn out to be that you’d think I would tease you about _that?_

**PAST ARCHIVIST**

What are you _talking_ about? **Why couldn’t you see the name?**

**MARTIN**

I’m blind.

**ARCHIVIST**

…

_(in a choked half-whisper)_ He didn’t.

**MARTIN**

Jon…

**ARCHIVIST**

When he said he could—I thought he had a better idea than—i-if he was going to--

**MARTIN**

_(overlapping)_ We both knew it was probably going to be the only way. It’s fine.

**ARCHIVIST**

How can you be so _calm_ about this? You got dropped in the middle of the Archives, mid-infestation, alone and blind and—you didn’t want this! How can you just accept it?

**MARTIN**

Well, I’ve had two weeks to get used to it. Okay, it’s not ideal, but it’s better than the alternative.

**ARCHIVIST**

And which alternative would _that_ be?

**MARTIN**

The one where we have to watch each other _die_ , Jon!

[A LONG SILENCE, SAVE THE WHIRRING OF THE RECORDER]

…Sorry, that—I didn’t mean it like that, I—

**ARCHIVIST**

_(softly)_ No.

_(a bit louder)_ No, you’re right. I’m sorry.

**MARTIN**

It’s all right, Jon.

[CLICK]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would apologize for that ending, but I think we'd all know I was lying.


	11. Sasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Settling in for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Raise your hand if you feel personally victimized by the last line of that S5 Act III trailer.
> 
> This chapter wasn't originally in my plans, but honestly, it ended up adding a little more to the plot than I expected. Maybe not the _immediate_ plot, but...

They all jump at the sound of the recorder clicking off. Tim sits up straighter and rubs his hands together.

“Well!” he says in what Sasha can tell is a falsely cheerful voice. “I think that’s enough earth-shattering revelations for one night. Who wants that whiskey now?”

“I refuse to get drunk around you again,” Sasha says. It’s a pathetic attempt at their usual banter, but it does get a genuine smirk out of Tim, complete with that unfairly attractive dimple.

Jon exhales heavily. He pulls off his glasses with one hand and rubs at his eyes with the other. “I should…probably get going.”

“The hell you will,” Tim says immediately. “Look at you. If I let you out the door, you’ll fall asleep at the wheel and die before you get to the end of the block. You’re staying the night.”

“Tim, while I appreciate the offer—”

“Nope, not interested in the rest of that sentence. The only thing keeping you upright is the arm of the sofa and the starch in your underpants.”

“And the stick jammed up my ass, no doubt?” Jon raises an eyebrow.

Tim grins. “See? You’re so tired you’re actually joking around with me. Stay the night, and tomorrow we can get answers out of them first thing.” He stands up without waiting for an answer. “One of you can take the sofa, the other one can have the love seat. Unless you want to build a blanket fort on the floor, but it wouldn’t be fair to leave Martin out. We’ll let the old folks fight over the bed.”

“ _Old folks?_ ” Jon Prime repeats indignantly. He shoots an obviously exaggerated glare at Martin Prime, who isn’t even bothering to hide his snickers. “We don’t look _that_ bad.”

Tim laughs. He’s the only one that doesn’t seem that tired, really. “Come on, you two. I’ll show you where the bedroom is.”

Jon Prime gets to his feet, then hesitates and glances at Martin Prime. Sasha wonders how blind Martin Prime actually is, because he seems to respond to that look; he hesitantly reaches out in Jon Prime’s direction. Jon Prime takes his arm without further comment, and Sasha watches Martin Prime’s shoulders slump in evident relief before the two of them quietly wish the rest of them goodnight and follow Tim down the hall.

Sasha watches them for a moment, then glances at Jon and Martin, who are both avoiding looking at one another. She decides to give them a little space and go gather up the spare blankets and pillows. They probably both need a minute or two to process what they just heard.

Truthfully, Sasha’s not sure what she thinks of it either. She’s impressed that Martin Prime isn’t passively rolling over and taking whatever Jon Prime dishes out, and she’s a little bit in awe of his strength. Could _she_ have survived two weeks alone and blind, let alone in the Archives? That feeling of being watched is creepy enough when she _can_ look over her shoulder and confirm nobody’s actually there; she can’t imagine what it would be like if she didn’t have that option. It must be terrifying, but Martin Prime hasn’t shown it.

She’s also—there’s no denying it—curious as all get-out. She kind of wants to interrogate Martin Prime, find out how he lost his eyesight, if it’s total vision loss or partial, if he thinks it’s temporary or permanent. What it’s like being blind in general, what it’s like trying to maneuver around the Archives blind. How he plans to deal with it if it _is_ permanent.

As she passes the door of Tim’s bedroom, which is ajar, she hears Martin Prime say, evidently mid-sentence, “—put you to any trouble.”

Sasha slows her steps and hovers outside the door, eavesdropping shamelessly. It’s always been one of her fatal flaws, that urge to snoop and spy and pluck secrets out of thin air. It’s part of what drew her to the Magnus Institute over any of the other research or archival jobs she could have taken, the other part being that most of the others would have required her to go too far from London. She hasn’t said anything about that to any of the others, about why she’s so keen to stay in the city. For all she loves ferreting out things about those around her, she’s always been close-mouthed about her own secrets.

“It’s no trouble at all,” Tim says. “Like I said, we were planning to spend the night in the Archives anyway, and I don’t think we’d all have fit on that cot in the back room. My floor’s a lot more comfortable.”

“Yes, but we don’t want to turn you out of your room.” Jon Prime sounds uncertain and exhausted.

“I offered. Look. Martin’s probably going to be asleep before I get back out to the living room, he looks exhausted. And I don’t think the rest of us want to leave him alone right now.” Tim sighs. “Where did we all sleep when we did this before?”

“Hmm?” Sasha isn’t sure which one of the Primes makes that noise.

“You said this happened a lot earlier than it did for you guys, right? If we want to keep an eye on each other like this _now,_ I bet it was even worse two months down the line. Did somebody else put us all up or what?”

There’s a short pause before Martin Prime says, “No, we—we all sort of went our separate ways.”

“Wait, seriously?” Tim sounds genuinely shocked. “No, that’s—if you were hurt—”

“I wasn’t, though. I was the only one who came out of it unhurt.”

“Physically, anyway,” Jon Prime says. “We were all a bit…it was rough for a while there.”

“All the more reason we _should_ have stayed together, then,” Tim says. “Whose idea was it not to?”

“I think we were all just…tired,” Martin Prime says slowly. “You—our Tim, I mean—he was in quarantine for a while, so he just wanted to go home, and Sasha…she wasn’t herself.”

Somebody makes a noise that might be a laugh, but Sasha isn’t getting the joke. Tim has an audible frown in his voice when he speaks again. “And you? What did you do? Go back to the place you’d last seen when you were being toyed with by six thousand worms wrapped in a trench coat and pretend that the idea of sleeping there alone didn’t bother you, then spend the night lying in bed staring up at the ceiling and jumping at every single sound?”

Martin Prime doesn’t answer for a moment. Finally, he says, so quietly Sasha has to move closer to hear properly, “You know, nobody ever actually asked me about that?”

“You know, that doesn’t really answer the question.”

“Martin?” Jon Prime’s voice is soft and laden with concern.

Martin Prime sighs heavily. “No. I went back to the place I’d last seen when I was being toyed with by six thousand worms wrapped in a trench coat and found out that I’d missed the deadline to renew my lease, then spent the night in a waiting room at St. Pancras pretending I had an early-morning train and reading through rental notices.”

Sasha presses a hand to her mouth to keep from swearing out loud. Tim does enough of that for both of them. “When was the lease up?”

“Mid-April sometime? Mrs. Mattson is…I’d been living there for years, but she’s not a sentimentalist. Once that deadline passed, she found a new tenant and arranged to have the place cleared out.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Jon Prime’s voice sounds ragged.

“It never really came up,” Martin Prime says, sounding a bit tired himself. “By the time I saw you again, I’d found a new place anyway, and I just…nobody ever asked me why I moved and it seemed easier not to say anything. There was kind of a lot going on.”

“All right, I—I suppose that’s fair, but…” Jon Prime trails off.

Sasha hears Tim take a deep breath. “Right, well, we’ll do better than that for our Martin, don’t worry. Maybe you can help us convince him he deserves it. Anyway, you two look like you’re about ready to drop, so I’ll let you get some sleep and finish grilling you tomorrow. Bathroom’s right across the hall if you need it.”

“Thank you, Tim,” Jon Prime says softly. “I mean it.”

“Hey, what are friends for?”

Sasha hurriedly steps away from the door and moves to the linen closet at the end of the hallway. A moment or two later, Tim joins her. “Need a hand?”

“I just thought I’d get the spare blankets and pillows,” Sasha says. “You know, so it feels a little more like we’re really sleeping. How were you planning to handle that in the Archives, by the way?”

Tim has the grace to look sheepish. “Okay, so it was an impulse. Sue me. We’d have probably ended up in a pile on the floor or something.”

“I suppose there are worse ways to sleep than in a cuddle pile with my two best friends.” Sasha nudges Tim, who laughs. “Like…alone, on a cot in the Archives.”

“I still can’t believe we let him do that for so long. We are horrible friends.” Tim glances over his shoulder, his expression suddenly pinched. Sasha wonders if she should admit that she heard his whole conversation with the Primes, but decides, on the balance, nah. “I mean, Jon I understand, he was still pretending he hated us.”

Sasha snorts and pulls out an armful of soft things. “Not very well.”

It at least brings a smile back to Tim’s face. “Well, I mean, you and I already knew it was an act. It’s just Martin who probably didn’t know.”

“Martin would have quit if he really thought Jon didn’t like him,” Sasha says, although she’s not altogether sure that’s true. Between the fact that he falsified most of his credentials to get the job at the Institute to begin with and the fact that he’s the sole support for a chronically ill mother, he probably _would_ have put up with a lot worse than a boss that hated him. “Or at least asked to be transferred back to the library.”

“What, and leave us to the mercies of the Archives?” Tim grins. “C’mon, grab the spare pillows and let’s go make everybody comfortable.”

True to Tim’s prediction, Martin has fallen asleep by the time they get back into the living room, although in a way that doesn’t make it seem like he’s under very deep, or at least that he’s not comfortable enough to stay asleep easily. Jon is kneeling on the floor in front of him, carefully working his shoes off his feet. He looks up when they come in, obviously flustered and embarrassed. “I didn’t notice he’d dropped off until a minute ago,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

Sasha isn’t surprised, considering he was avoiding making eye contact, but she doesn’t say that out loud. “I mean, it’s been a long day, and he’s probably in a lot of pain.”

Tim dumps his load on the coffee table. “Here, you get the lever and I’ll ease the back down so he doesn’t fall too hard. Don’t want to wake him, but sitting upright all night isn’t going to help him.”

Sasha wonders, as she sets down her own burden, how much of this is Tim trying to atone for what their counterparts did to Martin Prime and how much of it is him genuinely worrying about _their_ Martin, but she’s not going to ask because that would mean revealing she was eavesdropping. Instead, she selects a pillow and blanket and starts setting them up on the love seat while she watches Tim and Jon try to ease the footrest out and the back to a reclining position without jostling Martin awake. He must be really tired, though, because although his face screws up briefly and he makes a soft sound, he doesn’t otherwise react. Once he’s lying down, Jon leans over and carefully slides Martin’s glasses off of his face, then folds them and sets them on the end table between the recliner and the sofa.

He turns around, presumably to get a blanket, and starts when he sees Sasha making up a bed. “Here, you don’t have to—you’re taller than I am, you should—”

“Only by a bit,” Sasha interrupts. “Two or three inches isn’t going to make that much of a difference, and I sleep curled up anyway.” She also sleeps like the dead, and judging by the way Tim and Jon are fussing over Martin without making it obvious, she guesses they’re more concerned about Martin than she is. Which isn’t to say that she isn’t worried about him, only that she’s a bit more detached from the situation, for whatever reason. If anything happens to Martin in the middle of the night, she won’t wake up and hear it, and they’re more likely to jump up to do something about it anyway, so there’s no reason for her to stay near him. She doesn’t say that out loud, though.

“I…” Jon hesitates, then glances back at Martin, and his face softens in a way Sasha pretends not to notice so she won’t be tempted to pick at it. “All right. T-Tim, are you sure—”

“Yep. The floor and I are good friends. I’ve done a lot of camping and backpacking and the like, so I’m used to it.” Tim grins. “Pick a pillow and a blanket.”

Jon looks over the offerings on the table, then selects a faded patchwork quilt and unfolds it carefully. Somehow, Sasha isn’t surprised when he drapes it over Martin and tucks him in gently, almost tenderly, before turning back and taking another blanket along with a pillow. The blanket, to Sasha’s eye, looks as if it’s made of fiberglass and horsehair, but Jon runs his fingers over the pattern almost reverently. “Where did you find this?”

“California, I think,” Tim answers. “Maybe Mexico. My grandparents left me a bit of a legacy when they died, with the stipulation that I use it for a gap year in ‘the mountains’. It was that vague. I think my folks expected me to pick the Alps or the Pyrenees, maybe the Sierra Morena if I felt like being different. Something close to home, anyway. But I thought, hey, when am I ever going to get a chance like this again? Spent my whole last year of school planning and budgeting, and two days after graduation I was off to America. The start of the Pacific Crest Trail is right on the border with Mexico, and there was a market there, people selling handcrafts and the like. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to have an extra blanket. I was right, too.”

“Does it mean something to you, Jon?” Sasha asks, curious. “The pattern, I mean?” She’s seen people trace the lines of relics and books like that when touching something that looks familiar but isn’t, and there’s an oddly thoughtful look on Jon’s face.

“Sort of?” Jon looks up. He truly does look tired, which is odd, considering _he_ wasn’t the one running from worms. “I—my mother’s sister married an American. Well, he was Mexican-American. My cousin had a blanket like this on his guest bed, he said his grandmother made it for him.”

Tim begins making up a bed on the floor with the remaining blankets. He does so with a practiced ease that tells Sasha he truly has done this plenty of times before. “You’ve been to America, then? Or does your cousin live over here?”

“No, he’s in New Mexico. Or he was the last time we spoke. It’s been a few years.” Jon bends over and begins untying his shoes. “I didn’t—exactly take a gap year, but I did take some time off and go to visit him. He and his parents, or at least my aunt, used to come over and visit for a week or two every summer, so I thought I’d repay him by returning the visit. Ended up staying through to the end of the year.”

“Didn’t make it to New Mexico when I was there.” Tim turns to Sasha. “How ‘bout you, Sash? Ever been to America?”

Sasha shakes her head. “Closest I’ve come was getting to go onto one of their military bases in Ansbach. My family was on holiday in Germany and a boy asked me if I’d be his date to a holiday party. Evidently I was the only girl his age who spoke English he ran into who wasn’t already going with someone else.”

“We’ll all have to go sometime,” Tim says. “Close the Archives down for a couple weeks, the four of us can fly over and do the tourist thing.”

“I doubt Elias would go for that,” Jon says dryly, straightening up. “I barely was able to convince him to let us have a day or two off while the cleaning crews come in and get rid of the worm carcasses. Unless we manage to somehow convince him we’re doing research and that I need all of you with me, he’d likely insist at least one of us stay back.”

“Then we’ll sneak off,” Tim declares. “Leave the Institute on a Friday night, promise to see him Monday. Slip away under the cover of darkness, take a taxi to the airport, buy tickets under assumed names and catch a midnight flight. By the time he realizes we’re not coming in on Monday, we’ll be well dug in somewhere in America. He’ll never think to look for us there.”

“And then we’ll get fired the minute we set foot back in the Institute,” Sasha says.

“Nah, not us. Who’d take our place? Especially now? He’d have to hire from the outside and lie about the conditions. Worst we’ll have to endure is a lecture. ‘I am _sorely_ disappointed in all of you, leaving the Archives in such a state and going on holiday. We won’t discuss this further, but I _will_ have to refuse any further time off requests you make for the remainder of the year.’”

Sasha presses a hand to her mouth to stifle her giggles. “Shh, you’ll wake Martin.”

“What do you say, Boss?” Tim asks, undeterred. “Team Archives in America? Debunking ghosts and solving mysteries? Rent a technicolor cargo van and adopt a Great Dane?”

The corners of Jon’s mouth twitch upwards in a smile. “Actually, the idea of going on a trip with the three of you is, strangely enough, not an altogether unwelcome one. God knows I haven’t taken a holiday in ages.”

“Your enthusiasm is boundless,” Tim says dryly. He kicks off his shoes and sits down on the blanket nest he’s built. “Hey, maybe the Primes will cover for us. They can pretend to be you and Martin and just Sasha and I can take the time off.”

“I think it’s a _bit_ obvious they’re not us. Especially now.” Jon looks over at Martin. “I—I am sorry. I should have been there. I should have…it should have been me. Not any of you.”

Tim sighs, the smirk melting off his face. “Well, according to your counterparts, Martin was the only one who _didn’t_ get…wormed the first time, so maybe you not being there means fewer people got hurt.”

“While I’m not ungrateful that you and Sasha weren’t hurt, Tim, it doesn’t make me feel any better for not…being there to help. Not even _knowing.”_

“Yeah, well…it was spur of the moment, sort of. And I deliberately didn’t tell you. Figured you wouldn’t…I don’t know, want to stay? Encourage us to stay? I mean, like you told Martin, it _is_ still technically where we work, even if he was living there for a while.”

Jon looks pained. “I…in truth, I probably wouldn’t have wanted you all to stay, but not…Elias thought I was overreacting anyway, having Martin living there. I’d have probably come up with some ridiculous reason why you shouldn’t stay, but really it would have boiled down to the fear that if Elias found out we were all staying, he might order Martin out, and I—I thought that would put him in danger.”

“Well, if you believe what Martin Prime apparently told him, he wasn’t really what she was after,” Sasha points out. The last couple of words are swallowed by a yawn.

“I don’t know _what_ I believe, Sasha.” Jon sighs heavily and takes off his glasses. “Let’s…table this discussion for the morning, shall we?”

“Sounds good. Tomorrow, then.” Tim yawns and burrows into his blankets.

Sasha curls up on the love seat. She figures she’ll lie there until she’s sure the others are asleep, then get up and do some investigating on her laptop, but to her mild surprise, she drifts off almost as soon as her eyes close.


	12. Martin Prime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Primes get some much-needed alone time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to lie, this is one of my favorite chapters I've written in this fic so far. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I did.

As soon as he heard the bedroom door shut behind Tim, Martin turned towards Jon. He didn’t even get his mouth all the way open to say anything before Jon’s hands were on his face, and then Jon was kissing him.

It was their first kiss in far too long, since Martin had kissed Jon goodbye and promised to see him on the other side, and thank God it still felt the way it had before. A part of Martin had worried that things would be different—now that they were in the past, now that their plan was on its way, now that Martin was blind. This went a long way to reassuring him that they weren’t, though. Nothing had changed between them.

He gripped Jon’s elbows to hold him still. Jon’s hands dropped from Martin’s face and slid around his neck, seeming to try and pull him closer, although honestly if they got any closer Jon would be inside Martin’s rib cage. He also somehow managed to deepen the kiss, which Martin wouldn’t have thought possible a second previously. He closed his eyes and gave himself completely over to the moment.

The need for air was the only reason they separated, even a little bit. Martin rested his forehead against Jon’s and reveled in the simple fact that they were together again. It had probably been a good thing that they’d had these two weeks apart—it had given Martin a chance to prove to himself, and hopefully to Jon, that he _could_ manage on his own—but he wasn’t going to deny that he’d missed him, and that he wanted him there as much as possible.

Something wet hit his chin, and it took Martin a second to realize what it was. Jon was crying.

“Jon?” he asked, unable to hide the worry in his voice. He reached up hesitantly to cup Jon’s cheek and rub his thumb across it, catching the tear tracks coursing down it.

“I was afraid I’d lost you,” Jon whispered. Martin could feel his sweater bunching up into his hands. “I was so damned— _sure_ of myself. I told myself, when I let you follow the Keeper into that door, I told myself it would be okay, that whatever was hiding you from the Eye, from Jonah, I-I was sure it wouldn’t keep you from _me,_ that I’d be able to find you, that I could _Know_ you wherever you were, and then I couldn’t and I—I kept telling myself you were fine, you _had_ to be fine, that I’d see you when I got to the Archives and you’d fuss at me for trying to get in your head and then we’d laugh about it, and then I got to the Institute and I saw all that chaos a-and I couldn’t _find_ you, you weren’t _there—_ ”

“Jon. Jon, it’s okay, I’m okay,” Martin soothed. He pulled Jon’s head down to his shoulder, then began rubbing his back in slow, gentle circles with his free hand. “I’m okay. We’re okay.”

“It’s _n—”_ Jon’s voice started rising, but he checked himself and hissed, “It’s _not_ okay. I promised you I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, and then _everything_ almost happened to you. You were in the middle of Jane Prentiss’s attack, _again,_ but this time you were alone and blind and helpless—”

“I’m _not_ helpless,” Martin interrupted. He was rather proud of the fact that he managed not to say that in an angry or petulant tone, but quietly and firmly. All right, yes, he _was_ a little pissed at Jon for thinking of him that way, but he did get where Jon was coming from. Still, he’d done perfectly well for himself on his own. He honestly didn’t know if he would have been able to do as well as he’d done if he hadn’t spent time with Melanie before…everything, but he’d done it. He could still handle himself.

All the tension and fight went out of Jon in one long exhale, and he sagged against Martin. “No,” he agreed quietly. “You’re not.”

They held each other for a long moment of silence. Martin could feel Jon trembling, and he guessed it wasn’t all nerves. “Come on,” he said at last. “Let’s at least lie down. When’s the last time you slept?”

“Ah—yesterday? Day before, technically?” Jon stepped back a little, but didn’t let go of Martin. “The—the bed’s over here.”

Since Martin was completely unfamiliar with Tim’s bedroom—he’d only even been to his house once—he let Jon lead him. Getting ready for bed was easy enough, as was crawling into it, the movements more than half-mechanical. Jon pulled the covers up over both of them and immediately curled into Martin’s chest. They both sighed in near unison.

“I’ve been worried about you,” Martin murmured, running a hand through Jon’s hair. He tried to be gentle about working through the knots he encountered. “How long have you been…here?”

“In the past? About a week. Six days, more like.” Jon sighed and tucked his head into the crook of Martin’s neck. He fit there like he was a part of Martin’s body. “I just got to London earlier this evening, though. How—you said you’d been here two weeks. Where did you…come through?”

“The Archives. I think I was in one of the back corners.” Martin bit his lip. “Wasn’t sure where I was at first, until I heard Tim’s voice. What about you?”

“The safe house. I should have expected that, really, but it still _hurt_ knowing you weren’t there. And…walking out the door was harder than I expected it to be.”

“At least the sky wasn’t blinking at you.”

“It took me a bit to convince myself that it _wouldn’t_ before I could open the door.”

Martin wanted to laugh, but he knew Jon was in earnest. “I’m sorry. I wish I’d been there to help you.”

“And I wish I’d been in the Archives to help you. I—I know you don’t need it. I know you’re…I wouldn’t have been able to do it.”

“Do what? Stop Jane Prentiss?” Martin frowned. “You did the first time—”

“You may recall that I didn’t do all that much, except make statements and slow everybody down,” Jon interrupted. “It was mostly you and Tim. Some Sasha, and…but that’s not really what I meant.” He reached up and brushed a trembling hand over Martin’s eyes. “I wouldn’t have been able to handle being alone and blind. I’d have been completely lost without you.”

“Well…I mean, I was, too. I even told the others that just before you showed up,” Martin admitted. “It’s just…I’m used to being alone, I guess? There was…I never had anyone to take care of me, other than myself, so I learned how from a pretty early age. Worrying about _me_ was something that happened when I didn’t have anyone else’s needs to worry about, and that almost never happened. I’m always lost.”

“You’re not now,” Jon said fiercely. He pulled Martin’s head down for a kiss. “But that’s my point, Martin. If our positions had been switched, I wouldn’t have lasted two weeks on my own. I’d have broken completely. You’re…so much stronger than I am.”

Martin snorted. “I’m stubborn. There’s a difference.”

“You’re both,” Jon said. Martin didn’t need to see him to know he was smiling—it was obvious in the affection in his voice. “Almost everyone we’ve encountered has mentioned that. It doesn’t change the fact that I couldn’t have done half of what you did. Let alone without getting everyone else hurt, if not killed. You did that.”

“Luck.” Martin hesitated. “I…I couldn’t really…Jon, the others, are they _really_ okay?”

“They’re fine,” Jon assured him. “Except for…well, you. I’m sorry. It—it looks like their Martin took the brunt of the worms. But I didn’t even see so much as a hole on anyone else.”

Martin sighed in relief. “I can live with that.”

They fell silent for a while. Martin concentrated on the weight of Jon’s head against his shoulder, the thud of his heartbeat against his side, the warmth and softness of his skin under his hands. For as little time as they’d had together, or at least how little time they’d had before the world had ended and their clinging had been more desperate than loving, this was still so familiar, so comforting. Martin knew exactly where was safe to touch and where wasn’t, where Jon was overly sensitive and where he had no feeling at all. He literally didn’t need to see a thing.

“You know what’s bothering me the most?” he said at last.

“You don’t know what Sasha looks like?” Jon guessed.

“I don’t—are you reading my mind?” Martin felt his lips quirk upwards in a smile. Just a few months ago (or…whatever the actual span of time since the end of the world had been, he was guessing here), the very idea would have made him indignant, but now it was almost delightful.

“Is it wrong to say ‘I wish’?” Jon chuckled slightly, then sighed. “No. I—even right here with you, I can’t…it was the same with Melanie. Your eyes don’t work, so the Eye can’t use them. I just…know you. Lowercase know. And honestly, I wouldn’t have realized that was her if I hadn’t recognized her voice from the old tapes.”

Martin kissed the top of Jon’s head lightly. It was the closest thing to an apology he would be able to give for something Jon would fuss at him if he tried to actually apologize for. “So? What does she look like?”

Jon hummed. “Well, she’s tall. Not quite as tall as Tim, but taller than me, at least, which must have irritated me at some point. Slender, but…curvy, I guess? Not as waifish as the Not-Sasha was. Long dark hair, brown eyes. Glasses, too—the cat’s-eye type, you know what I mean?”

Martin frowned, trying to remember. “Are they…purple?”

“Yes. Wait. How do you know that? Could you see them?”

Jon sounded so hopeful, Martin hated to break his heart, probably as much as Jon had hated to admit he couldn’t actually read Martin’s mind. “I found a pair like that in the Archives once. While you were off on your world tour, I think. Tim made some snide remark about them being possessed or infused with evil energy or something like that, since they pretty obviously weren’t reading glasses.”

“Oh.” Sure enough, Jon deflated against Martin. “I hated that I didn’t recognize her. We were arguably friends for _years_ and I—I didn’t recognize her.”

“That’s…kind of a good thing, though?” Martin didn’t exactly mean to make it a question, but he was uncertain. He hadn’t known Sasha as long as Jon had, even though he’d been with the Institute longer than the entire rest of the Archives staff put together. “I mean, if you _did_ recognize her…it would have meant that she got taken by…”

“The Stranger. I know. I—God, I’m going to have to tell her tomorrow I looked into her head. You know I’m trying not to do that, but—I had to know if she was all right. When I realized the Institute had been attacked…”

“I think she’ll forgive you. I mean, it’s not like you did it for fun.”

“Still.” Jon suddenly tensed. “The table—has it been—?”

“Not yet,” Martin assured him. “Or if it has, someone else signed for the delivery. But I told…my counterpart to let me know if it did happen.” He paused. “Jon, what are we actually going to _do_ with that table?”

“I don’t know. The—the Other was bound _by_ it, not _to_ it, so I’m reluctant to destroy it and risk unleashing it on the Institute. At the same time…”

“Someone’s bound to study it eventually,” Martin completed. “What about sending up a copy of the statement talking about it? I mean, they’ve got the calliope locked up. Maybe if they know how dangerous it is, they’ll let it be.”

“Maybe.” Jon didn’t sound sure. “I—I don’t know enough about the people in Artifact Storage to know how they’d react. We can ask Sasha. She wasn’t there long, but she might know more than, well, the rest of us.” He sighed. “I’m just glad she’s all right. I—I wasn’t sure if we’d even know if she got taken. If we’d get muddled and forget that the voice wasn’t the same.”

Thinking about it gave Martin a headache. “Thankfully, she wasn’t. And your counterpart didn’t get hurt. Or Tim.”

“I worried about that, too. I don’t know how much of…the way he was at the end there was because of the Stranger and how much was because of the worms and how much was just…the general atmosphere of the Institute, and the Archives specifically, but I’m sure him turning into a sieve didn’t help.” Jon pressed a kiss to Martin’s collarbone. “And you didn’t get bitten?”

“Not even once,” Martin assured him.

“Good. That’s good.” Jon paused. “Why did you trust Michael?”

“Honestly? I didn’t feel like I had much of a choice.” Martin thought about how to phrase it. Because Jon was absolutely right—the Distortion was incredibly dangerous and untrustworthy, whether Michael or Helen. “He showed up in the tunnels…I don’t remember him doing that when Jane Prentiss attacked us, but maybe it was just because it was in the middle of the day. Or maybe I just wasn’t worth tormenting. But he did this time, and it was, well, it was me or them. Tim and Sasha needed to make it out of the tunnels because Past Me needed to know they were okay. I didn’t want them lost in those corridors for days or weeks on end. And I guess maybe I was hoping it would be less disorientating because I couldn’t see.”

“Was it?”

“Actually, yeah. Or maybe he just made it more…direct.”

Jon snorted. “I can’t see him being so… _helpful._ Especially not to someone tied to the Archives.”

“Well, I’m not exactly tied to them anymore,” Martin said slowly. “Especially not now. And like he said, I’ve been marked by the Spiral myself, that time Tim and I wound up in his corridors. Mostly, though, I think he was helpful because I told him I’d come back to help save the world.”

“Michael or Helen, I _really_ don’t think the Distortion would care that the world ended.”

“I… _might_ have left out a few key details,” Martin said. He couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at his lips. “I told him that the Beholding was the one that had eventually succeeded in its ritual, and that he had been completely and utterly destroyed. He didn’t seem too sure until I described exactly what his hallways looked like, _and_ who he used to be. Then I told him that if he wanted to have any chance _not_ to have those things happen, he’d best let me through safely.”

“God, I love you. Have I told you that lately?”

“Not since you walked in the door, no.”

Martin meant it as a joke, but from the way Jon suddenly went stiff, he realized it hadn’t quite landed. “Good Lord. I—I really haven’t, have I?”

“Well, to be fair, neither have I,” Martin pointed out. “We _did_ have other things to worry about. And, I mean, there’s the whole ‘we’re not going to tell our past selves that we’re in a relationship because we don’t want to rush them’ thing we agreed on. Honestly, Jon, you really think you have to say the words for me to know?”

“No. No, o-of course not. Still…” Jon cupped Martin’s jaw with one hand and kissed him—a soft, tender kiss that spoke volumes, even before he said, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Again they fell into a silence, one less heavy than before but still weighted. Martin was tired—not as tired as the others had to be, but still tired—but he was reluctant to sleep just yet. He was perfectly content to lie there with Jon, enjoying the nearly-forgotten sensation of _not_ being in imminent danger for once. The last time they’d been able to rest like this had been…well, all right, Salesa’s house, which didn’t really count with Annabelle Cane creeping about and Jon growing steadily weaker the longer he was cut off from the Eye. They hadn’t been able to relax this much, really, since before the world ended. And there was no telling how long they’d be able to relax now, so Martin was determined to enjoy it for however long it lasted.

He almost thought Jon had fallen asleep until he spoke again. “How much have you told them?”

It took Martin a second to realize what Jon was asking. “Not a lot. They only got here a few minutes before you did, really, and that was the first time I met Past You when he knew I wasn’t, well, Past Me. All I’ve told _him_ so far, that you weren’t here for anyway, was that I was from the future and that we were here to save the world, and that the statements on the tapes were real. And, well, you heard how much Tim and Sasha knew. I told Past Me a bit more, but not much. Just that the Fears exist and that one of them runs the Institute.” He paused. “Actually, he—put things together pretty quickly, but I didn’t go into details. I suppose he’s figured it out, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I told him about the Fears…he asked if one of them had something to do with spiders, and when I said yes, he asked if that was why you hated them so much. I didn’t put it together until I heard your tape about that damned Leitner.”

Jon made a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “When _did_ you listen to that tape? I—well, I’m not upset, obviously, and I would have…but I don’t remember actually giving it to you.”

Martin bit his lip. “It was…it was while you were in your coma, actually. I listened to all of them. Every tape I could find. I told myself I was trying to fill in the missing pieces, to find out the things you’d known so I could keep the Archives running for you, because I had to believe you’d be back, but…really I just needed to hear your voice.”

“I know how that goes,” Jon said softly. “Honestly, it’s why I listened to all those tapes you were leaving for me as soon as I did. And the ones you did while I was…gone before.” He paused. “Wait…did you listen to the official tapes or the ones I recorded for myself?”

“Both. I didn’t know they were the same cases at first, but…well, the first time I realized I was listening to something I’d already heard, I went ahead and listened all the way to the end.” Martin tightened his arms around Jon without really thinking about it. “God, I felt awful about them. You were going through so much and I didn’t even notice…”

“Martin, no, it—you _did_ notice. I honestly don’t know that I would have survived those months if you hadn’t been looking out for me. Even when I all but accused you of murder, you still looked out for me.” Jon hugged Martin tighter, too. “No one could have done more for me than you did. What happened wasn’t your fault. It’s never been your fault.”

Martin wasn’t sure how much he believed that, but he also wasn’t going to argue, not right now. They’d have plenty of time to argue later, he supposed. And really, if that was the worst thing they had to fight about, he could live with that. “Still. I wish there’d been something else I could have done.”

“Just as I wish I could have done more for you when you were working with Peter Lukas. We did what we could with what we had.” Jon sighed. “It will have to be enough. We can’t change it now—not for ourselves, anyway. And hopefully we can keep our past selves from ever having to face that.”

Martin hummed in agreement. “Jon…do you think we can? That we can actually keep Past You from being…marked by any more powers before we can take out…you know?” He left out the question that had been haunting him during the nights he lurked in the Archives: _Could_ they even take out Jonah Magnus? He’d thwarted their efforts once before, after all, and even though they were in the past now, it wouldn’t be easy. “I know you can’t Know the future or hypotheticals or anything like that. I’m asking for your opinion. What do you _think?_ ”

For a long moment, Jon didn’t answer. Finally, he said quietly, “I don’t think we can keep him completely free of marks. Michael…wants his revenge. Despite your warning, I think he’ll go after Past Me at some point regardless.” He pondered for a moment. “Before the Unknowing. We’ve got to take him out before then.”

Martin didn’t question which _him_ Jon was talking about. “Tim’s not going to be happy about us taking away his shot at revenge.”

“If there was a safe way of disrupting it, I’d be all for it, but I don’t think there is.”

“Jon, the whole _point_ is that the rituals can’t succeed,” Martin pointed out. “It’s going to collapse under its own weight anyway, right? Why does he have to disrupt it right at the height of the ritual? Why not just…plant the stuff and let him press the button from a safe distance?”

Jon paused. “That…God, why didn’t I think of that? Of course, you’re absolutely right. As long as they’re all there, it…it doesn’t matter how far along it is.”

Martin could hear the exhaustion in Jon’s voice. He was about to ask if Jon was _sure_ he’d slept within the last week when it hit him all of a sudden. Quietly, he asked, “When’s the last time you took a statement?”

The split-second pause before Jon answered told Martin everything he needed to know. “I’m fine.”

“Not what I asked.”

Jon sighed heavily. “I’ve done a couple small ones for myself since I came back, and, well, I _was_ in the room when they gave their statements. It…took the edge off, at least.”

“Yeah, but it’s not enough. You’re _starving,_ Jon.”

“What do you want me to do, start…pouncing people on the streets? You stopped me from doing that once before, and you were right, but—”

“I can give you one,” Martin said. He pressed a finger to Jon’s lips, forestalling his immediate refusal. “No, listen to me. You _need_ a statement. And you’ve been without one so long, it’s got to be…fresh. Besides, I know you want to know what my trip back here was like. That’s…definitely a statement.” _And it’ll probably keep you going for a while,_ he didn’t say. What he’d experienced, in a place he hadn’t expected to feel much fear, had nearly undone him, _would_ have undone him if the Keeper hadn’t intervened at probably the last possible moment. But if there was anyone he wanted to have it, it was Jon.

“I don’t want you to keep destroying yourself to help me,” Jon whispered.

“ _Gotowe zdrowie, kto chorobie powie. ”_ Martin quoted one of the old Polish proverbs his grandfather had taught him when he was little. He didn’t bother translating. One of Jon’s “gifts” from the Beholding was the ability to understand languages spoken at him, at least sometimes. He couldn’t _speak_ them necessarily, but he could understand them, when the Eye felt it was important. He also knew that Jon didn’t always realize he was doing it. “Let me do something for you, Jon. Please.”

There was a long silence before Jon said, “Tomorrow. Not tonight. Just…I didn’t start seeing Melanie again after she—quit, but just in case it—one more night without nightmares.”

“Okay,” Martin agreed. “Tomorrow it is. After we’ve answered some questions, how’s that?”

“That’s…honestly better than I expected. I thought you’d try to make me do it first thing in the morning.” Jon sounded relieved.

“I’m _trying_ to meet you halfway here.” They were both stubborn as hell—Martin probably worse than Jon, if he was being honest—but they were learning to make concessions to one another. As badly as Martin wanted to force Jon to just _take_ the damn statement already, he also knew that the need for statements was the one part of the Archivist package Jon still hated. More so after what Jonah Magnus had done to him, done _through_ him. And Jon was right about there being a chance taking his statement would mean both of them had to experience it in their nightmares. It was a chance they’d have to take, though.

“So am I.” Jon exhaled. “I…I don’t know how I’m going to do this. How to find the balance between keeping them safe and not keeping them in the dark. And how to do it without…manipulating them. Without forgetting that they’re _people,_ not pieces on a game board.”

“That’s what I’m here for. To help you.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Martin twirled a strand of Jon’s hair around his finger idly. “I don’t want to ever have to find out.”

Jon snuggled against Martin’s chest, and he felt the butterfly kiss of his eyelashes fluttering shut. “Neither do I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can hover over that proverb to see the direct translation, but the English equivalent is "A problem shared is a problem halved".


	13. Tim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim figures out a hell of a lot more than he lets on, because as much as he likes to tease, he's not malicious about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, we survived the hiatus! And Episode 190 didn't kill us either!
> 
> This chapter yielded a few unexpected surprises for me, but I'm not necessarily complaining about them. We'll see how some of them develop. Anyway, enjoy the softness of the morning.

Tim is, by nature, an early riser. He’s not a runner or anything, but he’s always been that person on camping trips who goes on early-morning hikes to watch the sun come up through the trees or paddles out on the lake to bring back fish for breakfast. It’s served him well during his time at the Institute, partly because he hasn’t been late _once_ in the entire time he’s been there, partly because it means he can go in a bit early and use the library without having to fight for space, and partly because it’s fun to annoy his superiors—and sometimes his colleagues—by being far too chipper when they arrive.

Between that and the fact that he’s sleeping in a blanket cocoon on his living room floor, he’s the first one awake the morning after the infestation. He’s also completely awake, no need to lie there while his brain comes online, so he sits up carefully and looks around the living room.

Sasha is still curled in a ball on the love seat, her back to the rest of the room and the blanket tucked securely over and underneath her; Tim watches her for a second to make sure she’s actually breathing, she’s lying so still, but yes, she just appears to be a heavy sleeper. Jon, on the other hand, apparently sleeps like an eggbeater; his blanket is twisted around him like the snakes on a caduceus, one foot is exposed, one arm dangling off the sofa, and his face is set in an expression of worry. Martin in the recliner appears calm on the surface, but there’s a tiny wrinkle between his eyes that tells Tim he’s probably in pain. He wonders if he should wake him up and get some paracetamol down him or something, but on the balance, he decides, no. Best to let him sleep.

He carefully untangles the blanket from around Jon, who mumbles something vaguely panicked-sounding about a staple gun and shifts restlessly, and re-covers him, then checks Martin’s forehead with the back of his wrist. Satisfied that he doesn’t seem to have a fever, Tim plucks Sasha’s glasses off her face and sets them on the coffee table, then heads down the hallway to use the bathroom. When he steps out, clean-shaven and ready for another day, he remembers their guests and crosses the hall. Cautiously, quietly, he opens the door to his bedroom and peeks in.

It takes a second for his eyes to adjust to the dim pre-dawn light, but Tim’s got fairly good night vision and before long he can make out the bed and its occupants fairly easily. He assumed, insofar as he thought about it at all, that he would find them lying back to back, or as far apart as they could get without one of them falling out of the bed, or that one of them would be curled up on the floor so the other could have the entire bed to himself.

What he sees is completely different.

There’s a neat pile of clothing near the foot of the bed—no surprise they wouldn’t want to sleep in the things they’ve been wearing since the world ended—and both Jon Prime and Martin Prime are tucked under the covers. They’re not avoiding one another at all. Far from it. Instead, they’re curled up together, not just spooning but full-on _cuddling._ Jon Prime’s head is tucked into Martin Prime’s shoulder and part of Martin Prime’s face is buried in Jon Prime’s hair. Their arms are entwined around one another more securely than they embraced one another on their reunion the previous night, and they look…peaceful. Happy, even. _Safe._

Tim closes the door as carefully as he opened it and leans against it for a moment, trying to reconcile what he’s just seen with his usual world view. It’s not just that they’re friends; he observed that last night, as relieved as they were to be reunited and the way they fought about Martin Prime’s blindness. Obviously they’re friends. Obviously they care about each other.

But a _couple?_ Jon acts like he can barely stand Martin most days, and while Tim’s willing to accept that they’ll eventually develop a friendship—he’s seen them interact when Jon’s off-duty, and the fact that Martin is literally the only person Tim’s ever seen who actually lets Jon ramble and shows an _interest_ in what he’s saying has not escaped him—seeing them like _this_ is a little out there.

Or is it?

Tim heads down to the kitchen, thinking it over. He knows Martin has a crush on _somebody;_ he’s even talked to him about it. And now that he thinks about it, it’s pretty obvious that it’s Jon. Nothing overt, just a lot of little things. As for Jon, well, up until last night Tim would have been prepared to swear he thought of Martin as nothing but a nuisance, but then again, he _was_ the one to insist Martin stay in the Archives where it was safe after Jane Prentiss held him hostage for two weeks, and he’s been a lot less critical of him on the recordings. And Tim’s not going to forget the way Jon practically tore the paramedic limb from limb to get to Martin and make sure he was safe in a hurry, that’s for sure. So…yeah, maybe he can see it. At least he can see the groundwork, the foundation of whatever it is Jon Prime and Martin Prime have.

Good for them.

He stands in the middle of his kitchen and stares at his cupboards, rubbing absently at his chest. There’s a knot forming there, which is weird and surprising. It’s not anxiety or fear, not really; Jane Prentiss is dead, Martin and Sasha and Jon are safe in the other room, everyone is _fine,_ there’s no reason to be afraid. It feels more like…jealousy, and Tim isn’t sure why. Maybe he’s just jealous of Jon Prime and Martin Prime for having a connection like that, a bond so strong it’s lasted beyond the end of the world. Maybe he just wishes he had someone to love him like that.

Trying to stop himself from humming, Tim opens his fridge and discovers that he’s basically out of food. He curses under his breath. He usually goes shopping on Sundays, but, well, the first of May is Danny’s birthday and Tim is not about to admit to anyone that he spent it getting drunk, although he thinks Martin might have guessed something was up on Monday morning.

Luckily, there’s a shop not far away that keeps early hours. He scribbles a quick note and tacks it on the bathroom door in case anyone wakes up before he gets back, palms his keys, and quietly lets himself out of the house, making sure to lock the door behind him. Jon’s thankfully left him enough room to get his car out of the driveway, and before long he’s on his way.

Tim doesn’t have Martin’s near-supernatural levels of caretaker abilities, but, well, he _is_ (was? It’s hard to figure out whether he can still consider himself one or not) a big brother, which means he’s got some skills in the knowing-what-people-like department. He’s also worked with Jon and Sasha since he came to the Institute, maybe not closely but at least with them, and he flatters himself that he’s grown fairly close to Martin in the last almost-year, so he’s got a fairly good idea of the kind of food they like. He just hopes Jon Prime and Martin Prime haven’t changed too much.

Shopping accomplished, Tim swings by the chemist’s to pick up the prescription he remembers the paramedic saying he was going to call in for Martin. He grabs some extra bandages and whatnot as well. As he stands in line, mentally going over the pertinent information he’ll need to actually claim the medication, his eyes fall on a display of white-tipped canes for the blind, just a few steps to the left.

He ponders for a second. Jon Prime seems very solicitous of Martin Prime—understandably, if they’re a couple—and Martin Prime managed well enough for two weeks that none of them actually noticed he was blind, so he can get around well enough. But then, the Archives are a space he’s presumably quite familiar with. And Jon Prime won’t be within shouting distance all the time, Tim’s sure. No relationship can survive without _some_ space from your partner.

He snags one and brings it up to the counter with his other purchases.

It’s well after sunrise by the time Tim gets back home. He pulls past Jon’s car, unloads his purchases, and piles them up by the side door that leads directly to the kitchen so he can just bring everything in all at once. Somehow, he manages to get it in without making too much noise, then puts away the things that need to be refrigerated and sets the kettle on to boil before remembering the note he left on the bathroom door. He’d best go take that down before anyone wakes up and gets confused.

The bathroom door is slightly ajar, and there’s a hint of moisture coming from inside as the steam dissipates, which tells Tim that _somebody_ took him up on the _Feel free to take a shower; I stockpile like I’m planning for the Apocalypse anyway, so there’s plenty of supplies_ offer he put in the note. He removes it and glances behind him to see his bedroom door still firmly shut. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t one or both of them who took the shower, but he decides to let them be for now and makes his way back to the living room.

Sasha is still asleep in exactly the same position as he left her. Unsurprising; she’s never been a morning person, and without an alarm, she’s likely going to sleep until someone wakes her up. Jon is asleep, too, but he’s evidently still tossing and turning, because he’s half-uncovered again. Martin, on the other hand, is awake, but evidently only just. He’s wearing his glasses and he’s managed to get the footrest on the recliner down, but he’s just sitting there, staring vacantly in the direction of the pile of blankets.

“I burst out of my cocoon an hour ago. I’m a beautiful butterfly now,” Tim deadpans, pitching his voice low to avoid waking the other two. He feels bad when Martin starts and instantly winces. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. How are you feeling this morning?”

Martin blinks a couple of times, as if considering that. “Okay, I think,” he says unconvincingly.

Tim raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. Pain?”

“I’ve had worse.”

For some reason, that doesn’t set Tim’s mind at ease, but he decides not to say anything. Instead, he holds up the bag from the chemist’s and rustles it at him. Martin stares at it, then blushes. “Oh. Uh…thanks. How—how much do I owe you?”

“Forget it.”

“But—”

“It was like three pounds, don’t worry about it.” Actually, Tim has no idea how much the prescriptions cost, since he didn’t look at the breakdown on the receipt, but he is in no way, shape, or form going to accept any money from _anybody_ currently in this house for anything he bought today. He doesn’t think the Primes have money, and as for everyone else…they’re the closest thing he’s got left to family. He hands the bag over to Martin. “None of us really thought about picking them up last night. Stupid, really. You might’ve had a pain-free night.”

“They gave me painkillers before they let me go,” Martin says absently, carefully working at the staples holding the bag closed. “I wouldn’t have been able to take them for another few hours at least.”

Tim realizes that he’s not actually still half-asleep, he’s just in a serious amount of pain and it’s affecting his concentration. He resists the urge to take the bag from him and open it for him. “Want me to get you a glass of water so you can take that, then?”

Martin manages to get the bag open and peers into it, then pulls out an amber vial. He studies the label, absently running his thumb over the cap. “‘Take with food.’”

Of course. “That’ll be a little while. I just got back from the store.”

“I’m all right. Really, Tim.” Martin looks up and manages a smile. “Mind if I use the bathroom?”

“No, you have to sit there and soil yourself,” Tim says flatly. “Need a hand getting up?”

Martin shakes his head and braces his hands against the arms of the recliner. It’s hard to keep from going over to help him up when Tim sees the pain in his eyes, but Martin doesn’t set boundaries often and Tim’s trying to be good about respecting them. If Martin needs help…well, he probably won’t ask, but he might.

It takes him a couple moments, but he does manage to get to his feet and stagger down the hallway. Tim shadows him until he makes it into the bathroom, then glances at his bedroom door again, torn between letting them have some more privacy and seeing if they need anything. The host—and the urge to make a bit of mischief—wins out, and he taps on the door.

“Come in,” Jon Prime’s voice calls, barely audible through the door. Tim wonders if he’s guessed the others are still sleeping.

He opens the door to see that the Primes are, indeed, awake and dressed, and judging by the way Martin Prime’s curls are plastered to his head, they are definitely the ones who used the shower. They’re sitting on the edge of the bed, Martin Prime with one leg dangling off the side and the other crossed over his knee, Jon Prime with his legs tucked under himself. His back is to Martin Prime, his eyes closed and his head tipped back slightly. Martin Prime has a double handful of Jon Prime’s hair and is in the process of braiding it. It’s a cozily domestic scene, something that speaks to a quiet but deep intimacy between the two of them, a sense of trust, a simple act of care and service. The natural progression of Martin suddenly abandoning his work and reappearing a few minutes later with a cup of tea—usually for Jon, but occasionally for Tim just as he’s hanging up with a frustratingly reticent witness or Sasha right before she starts swearing at her computer.

Yeah, if Tim wasn’t sure they were a couple before, he sure as hell is now.

There’s a kind of a tension in the room, though, and Tim wonders if he interrupted an argument of some kind. Then he hears a faint, hollow rasping noise. After a second, he recognizes it as the sound of Jon Prime rubbing the ball of his thumb against the inside of the second knuckle on his index finger—one of several nervous habits of Jon’s and a rare one, if only because the cuffs of his shirts usually muffle the sound. For him to attempt to turn his finger bones into a worry stone, he’s got to be truly scared.

Tim considers calling him on it before it hits him. They’re scared of _him_ —or more precisely, of how he’s going to react to them being a couple. He’s about to open his mouth and reassure them that he’s fine with it, really, maybe tease them a little bit, when the tiny voice in the back of his head that he’s been more or less ignoring since he came home to find Danny crying silently on his sofa points out that if they haven’t said anything themselves, it’s probably for a reason. Like the fact that his— _their_ Jon and Martin aren’t a couple yet and, if they find out that their counterparts are, they might rush into something they’re not ready for. Or, alternatively, _refuse_ to get into a relationship they both desperately want because they don’t want to feel _obligated._ Either way, Tim considers promising them he won’t say anything.

Then he decides to give listening to the tiny voice a try for once, which means that when he does open his mouth, what comes out is a cheerful, “Morning.”

It’s evidently the right thing to say. Both of them relax, at least a fraction, and Jon Prime’s hands flatten over his knees. “Good morning, Tim,” he says without opening his eyes.

Tim grins, secure in the fact that neither of them can see it. “Sleep okay?”

“More or less,” Jon Prime replies. He still sounds tired, although not quite as bad as the day before. “I literally can’t remember the last time I slept without nightmares.”

Martin Prime’s hands still. “What, _none?_ ”

“Not a one.” Jon Prime opens his eyes and starts to turn, then evidently remembers that Martin Prime still has hold of his hair. “Did you?”

“Not about last night.” Martin Prime resumes braiding. “Which is good to know, I guess. Make things easier.” He taps one hand on Jon Prime’s shoulder, and Jon Prime hands him a hair tie without him needing to say a word.

Tim decides he’ll wait to ask about it until the whole group is together, so they only have to explain themselves once. He does have another question, though. “How bad were the nightmares the first time? About…everything?”

Martin Prime glances in his direction. Tim would almost believe he can still see. “I didn’t have any. Not while I was sleeping, anyway. I—I remember it was a bit hard to go back to the Archives, at first, but I never dreamed about what happened.” He loops the hair tie expertly around the end of Jon Prime’s braid and sits back. “How did you sleep?”

“No nightmares. Well, no new ones, anyway.” Tim wonders if they know what happened to him. From the look that flickers briefly over Martin Prime’s face, he guesses the answer is yes. “Suppose you know what I _do_ dream about, though. Know any way to make that stop?”

“Yes, but you won’t like it.” Jon Prime sighs.

Tim thinks of himself as reasonably brave, for the most part, but he takes the coward’s way out of this one. “Tell me some other time.”

The kettle whistles shrilly from the kitchen, and there’s a yelp and a _thud_ from the direction of the living room. Tim pulls away and grimaces. “Let me go handle that. Come on into the kitchen whenever you’re ready.” Waving at Martin Prime despite the futility of the gesture, he adds, “Tea bags are in the ceramic jar on the counter, mugs are in the end cabinet, sugar in the tin, milk in the fridge. If you want to fix for the two of you yourself.”

“Thanks, Tim.” Martin Prime sounds both surprised and pleased.

Jon Prime gives Tim a grateful smile; Tim winks at him and raps the door frame twice with his knuckles before heading into the kitchen to shut off the kettle.

Once he’s done that, he looks into the living room again, not in the least surprised to see that Sasha is still asleep and Jon appears to have fallen off the sofa. He’s still trying to free himself from the tangled blanket, looking somewhere between bemused and panicked.

“Need a hand?” Tim asks, coming forward.

Jon looks up sharply with a gasp. “Tim. You’re all right? Where’s Martin?”

Tim holds up both hands in as soothing a gesture as he can. “Easy, Boss. Martin’s in the bathroom. Everybody’s fine.”

Jon stares at him for a moment, then slowly relaxes, rubbing a hand over his face. He looks about as good as Jon Prime does in terms of exhaustion. “S-sorry. I just…nightmares, I suppose.”

“Yeah, figured. Surprised it took the whistling to make you fall off the sofa, really.” Tim glances at the lump of blankets that is Sasha. “I better make her coffee or we might have to resort to drastic measures to wake her up. Breakfast will be ready in a few. I hope.”

Jon nods and takes slow, measured breaths as he focuses on getting out of the blankets twisted around his legs. Tim decides not to embarrass him further and heads into the kitchen again.

Jon Prime and Martin Prime are already there, which doesn’t surprise Tim in the slightest. Jon Prime stands off to one side, leaning against the wall, arms folded over his chest as he watches Martin Prime carefully step around the end of the open cabinet and run his fingers over the mugs on the shelf. He’s moving more slowly than Martin does, but other than that, he seems to be doing fine.

“Hey,” Tim says, stepping into the room. Martin Prime only flinches a little. “Sasha’s the only one still asleep, but I’m sure she’ll be up once she smells the coffee.”

An odd look flickers across Jon Prime’s face for a moment, then he nods slowly. “That’s right. She usually gets a cup of coffee in the mornings before she comes to the Institute—it’s why she gets off at Victoria Station, because the shops around the Institute are expensive.”

“Right,” Martin Prime murmurs. “She mentioned that in the statement she made after she met Michael.”

Tim slips between them and plugs in the single-cup coffee maker, a rarely-used gift from Danny, then snags one of the mugs Martin Prime is lining up on the counter. It hasn’t escaped his notice that Martin Prime has pulled enough for everyone. “You don’t have to make tea for all of us, you know. I just…I wasn’t sure if your tastes changed or anything.” _And I don’t actually know how Jon likes his tea to begin with,_ he adds to himself, a bit guiltily. Hell, he barely knows how Martin likes his tea, and that only because he accidentally grabbed the wrong mug one day. It suddenly seems a vast gulf in his knowledge, which is _stupid,_ but it’s where his brain is at the moment.

“I know, but I’d like to. It’s…” Martin Prime seems to think for a minute as he feels along the counter until he finds the somewhat disturbing cookie jar Tim inherited from his mother. He doesn’t bake, but he’s always been a tiny bit suspicious that the jar with its bulging eyes and fat lips is either cursed or haunted or both, so he’s afraid to get rid of it. “It feels like the least I can do. I know it’s not exactly helpful, but—”

“Are you kidding? It’s a huge help.” Tim shoots Jon Prime a slight frown. “And if none of us ever told you how much we appreciate it, I’m honestly shocked you bothered to come back and save us, ‘cause we don’t deserve you.”

“You’re not wrong about that,” Jon Prime says softly.

“Stop. There were…extenuating circumstances, and really, it’s not that big a deal.” Martin Prime’s ears are turning pink. “It’s just tea.”

Tim snorts as he wrestles the coffee pod into submission and starts it brewing. “It’s not _just_ tea. It’s you sussing out how we like it before I even dug out the tape recorder for the first time and knowing right when to bring it to us. And don’t think I don’t know you’re the one who went out and bought those mugs for us. Hey, Martin,” he adds over his shoulder.

Martin stands in the doorway, gripping the frame like he’s trying not to collapse, pale under the bandages. “Er, hi,” he squeaks. “How did you know about that?”

“Well, it’s that or you stole them out of the break room cabinet, and you’re not the type to hoard Institute property. Sit down before you fall down.” Tim points at the kitchen table and gives Martin a stern look. He sits, or more accurately tumbles awkwardly onto a chair and looks as if he immediately regrets every choice that led him to this point. “I promise, I’ll have something ready in a bit.”

“I’m _fine,”_ Martin insists.

Tim raises an eyebrow at him, then turns to Jon Prime. “Was he this stubborn when the attack happened in your time?” he asks, despite knowing that Martin Prime didn’t actually get physically injured.

“Yes,” Jon Prime says, a twinkle in his eyes Tim doesn’t think he’s ever actually seen on Jon’s face. “Regardless of the timeline, Martin is in fact incredibly stubborn.”

“Oh, look who’s talking,” Martin Prime shoots back. “You were back at work a month after the attack. Would’ve been sooner if I hadn’t all but thrown you out of the Archives when you tried.”

“He threatened to swaddle me in a blanket and carry me home himself if I didn’t go on my own,” Jon Prime tells Martin and Tim. “Which I did.”

“After stealing the key to the trapdoor,” Martin Prime says. “Which he then used to sneak into the tunnels before he was officially back on the job. _Several_ times.”

“Twice. I went down there twice.”

“And then almost nightly after that.” Martin Prime rolls his eyes and reaches for the sugar tin. “ _Alone._ ”

Jon Prime huffs. “In my defense, I was in a state of extreme paranoid delusion and believed one or all of you was trying to kill me.”

“In your defense,” Martin Prime mimics. “Er, Tim, where do you keep your spoons?”

Tim hands Martin Prime a spoon, figuring it’s easier than trying to count drawers. “Where’d you come up with that nonsense? If we were going to try and kill you, you wouldn’t know it until you were actually dead.”

“Tim!” Martin’s voice goes high and shrill.

“Hey, I said _if._ ”

Jon Prime worries at the end of his braid. “When the Institute was attacked…well, let’s just say that something other than the worms was unleashed. The…creature caused a great deal of paranoia and confusion, and I unfortunately took the brunt of it.”

“Didn’t do the rest of us any favors,” Martin Prime adds. “But he definitely got the worst of it. Directly, anyway.” He sets a mug next to Tim’s elbow, then picks up another and turns in Jon Prime’s direction.

Tim glances over his shoulder and suppresses a grin at the soft smile, the genuine gratitude, in Jon Prime’s eyes as he steps forward and accepts the mug from him. “Thank you.”

Jon comes into the room just then and checks briefly in the doorway. Jon Prime salutes him ironically with his mug. “Good morning. The usual nightmares?”

Martin’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline, and Jon stares at his counterpart for a minute. Tim can almost hear the wheels turning. Finally, he sighs. “Yes. I suppose you know them all.”

“Far too well,” Jon Prime agrees.

Jon pulls out a chair and sits down. Tim doesn’t have to look back from the stove to guess that he’s sitting next to Martin. “Do they ever go away?”

The same question Tim asked, but this time there’s a long silence before Jon Prime says, “Only when they die.”

There’s a very, _very_ heavy silence after that, broken only when Sasha comes practically stomping into the kitchen with her eyes still closed and makes a beeline for the coffee. She must down half the cup before she looks at Tim and asks, “Was this for me?”

It’s probably just the sudden break in the tension, since it’s really not all that funny, but Tim starts laughing and can’t stop, and soon all of them are laughing, too. It feels good to laugh. Especially since they probably won’t be for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This is Tim’s cookie jar.](https://youtu.be/QKNd5Ruvxm4?t=70) Don’t open that link in a dark room. **(Update 1/18/2021:** You also might want to put on headphones.)


	14. Martin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's about time we start getting some goddamned answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Attempt #2 at posting this - my internet crashed right in the middle of the first attempt. (If you're startled that this is being posted comparatively early in the day, I'm having to stay home from work for a couple of days; my brother displayed possible COVID symptoms and I can't go back to work until I have a negative test or quarantine for ten days. _Sic transit gloria_ Monday.)
> 
> So just as a warning, these next few chapters are going to get a little...heavy. Also a little info-dumpy-y. ~~Also I'm going to be taking the opportunity to air a few of my theories/headcanons via the characters and y'all are just gonna have to deal with that.~~ So yeah, be warned, The Feels Are Strong.
> 
> Some of the dialog in this chapter is lifted or paraphrased from MAG111.

Tim is an unexpectedly good cook. Whether because of that or because everyone is still mulling over the little bits and drabs they’ve got from the Primes, breakfast is a rather silent affair. Martin doesn’t think he’s hungry until the plate is under his nose, and he’s not sure why it’s so hard for him to eat until he chokes down enough that Tim declares it can count as “with food” and Jon hurries out to get Martin’s pills for him. It’s only after they’ve started to work and he’s mostly done with his plate that he realizes it’s pain making him nauseous. Jon Prime gives him a knowing, understanding look and he has to look away.

Sasha offers to help Tim clean up, but he does most of it while they’re still eating and insists the rest of it can wait until later, so once everyone has finished and the stuff that won’t last sitting out is put away, they all head back into the living room. Martin supposes they could have this conversation in the kitchen around the table, but he also acknowledges that the seating in the living room is more comfortable, and he, at least, won’t last long in Tim’s kitchen chairs.

He starts to sit in the recliner again—it’s definitely the least comfortable seat in the room, not that it’s _un_ comfortable, just that it’s not exactly the best seat in the house, so Martin automatically assumes it’s his—but Jon stops him with a touch to his arm and a shake of his head and steers him towards the sofa. Sasha and Jon are both thin; Tim is a bit broader than them but not so broad as Martin, but they all manage to squeeze together onto the sofa somehow, Jon on one end and Sasha on the other and Martin sandwiched between Tim and Jon. The Primes sit on the love seat opposite them. Jon Prime rests his hand on top of Martin Prime’s without seeming to realize he’s doing it.

“Well,” he says. He sits up a little straighter, leans forward slightly, and looks directly at Jon. “Before we begin, I have two questions for you, and I’m fairly certain I know the answer to at least one, but…well, no one ever actually asked me these questions.”

Jon tenses, but says evenly, “Go ahead.”

“First question. How much do you want to know?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I can tell you everything I—we—learned in the two years between this point and when the world ended, but the more knowledge you have, the more dangerous things will be for you. Or I can tell you nothing more than you already know, and leave you to figure out what you can on your own. Or I can tell you something in between the two, in which case you would be trusting me with the decision of how much to tell you now and how much to let you discover for yourself.”

Jon is silent for a moment. Finally, he says, “Tell me—tell me everything you wished you’d known at this point.”

Jon Prime nods, as if that’s the answer he was expecting. Martin guesses that was the one he was fairly sure of. “Second question, then. How much do you want _them_ to know?”

“Hey,” Sasha says, sounding offended.

Jon Prime doesn’t take his eyes off of Jon. “As I said, the more knowledge you have, the more dangerous things will be for you. The more people who have that knowledge, the danger will grow as well. And I can’t promise that some of these things won’t change the way they look at you. The way they react to you. Knowledge once given _cannot_ be taken back.”

Jon looks down the sofa at the three of them. Martin tries to keep his face neutral, but he’s worried, and he knows it shows. Not so much about what might happen to him if he knows, but about what might happen to _Jon._

“What about them?” he asks softly. “You said that the more people know, the—the more dangerous it is for _me,_ but what about for them? If they know…will it put them in more danger?”

Jon Prime hesitates. “No,” he says at last. “The opposite. The more they know, the better able they’ll be to keep themselves safe.”

Jon straightens and looks his counterpart square in the eye. “If you’d led off with that, it wouldn’t have even been a question you needed to finish asking. I want them to know whatever they need to know to be safe.”

Jon Prime turns his attention to the assistants. “How much do _you_ three want to know?”

“We have a choice?” Martin asks, surprised.

“Yes,” Jon Prime says simply. “There’s…so much you never had a choice about in our timeline. I refuse to do that to you again. Any of you.”

Sasha crosses her arms over her chest. “Call me curious, but I don’t think I can walk away from this without knowing more.”

“Yeah, screw it,” Tim says. “I’ve had enough fumbling around in the dark, and I want to know what the hell’s going on here. I’m not walking into anything else I don’t understand without a damned good reason.”

Jon Prime shifts his gaze. “Martin?”

Martin hesitates. He’s genuinely torn. On the one hand, he’s with the others; he hates not knowing what’s going on, and he’s more than a little afraid of getting into another situation like finding Jane Prentiss in that basement because he doesn’t know enough to steer clear. But at the same time, if it keeps Jon safe for him to stay ignorant, it’s a risk he’ll gladly run.

But _will_ it actually keep Jon safe?

He looks, not at Jon Prime, but at Martin Prime. Martin Prime keeps his sightless gaze trained steadily in Martin’s direction, and there’s a pinched look on his face, like he knows what’s tearing Martin apart. Well, he probably does. As if he feels Martin’s eyes on him, as if he can sense the question Martin wants to ask, he gives a small, subtle nod.

“Whatever you want to tell us, I’ll listen,” he says, looking back at Jon Prime.

“All right,” Jon Prime says, exhaling hard. He nods and repeats, “All right. Well. Now that we’ve settled that…honestly, I’m not sure where to start.”

Martin worries at his lower lip. He runs through the dozens of questions he’s accumulated in the last week, every time Martin Prime has said _it’s a long story_ and promised to explain when—he now knows—Jon Prime arrives, and tries to pick which one is the most pressing, the most important. Which one will be the easiest to answer. From the way the others are sitting, they’re probably thinking something similar. But Martin’s the one with the most pieces, so he knows that unless he wants Tim to break the ice with a borderline wisecrack, it’s probably on him to ask the first question.

At last, he looks at Martin Prime. “You mentioned…beings. Things that thrive on fear?” He turns to Jon Prime. “He said you could explain it better than he could.”

“I suppose the beginning is a good place to start,” Jon Prime says on a heavy exhale. His eyes flick from one of them to the other. “Right. What do you all know about Robert Smirke?”

Both Jon and Sasha give small sighs as Tim sits up a bit straighter. “The architect? One of the foremost proponents of Gothic Revival in the early nineteenth century. He was one of the first to use concrete and cast iron. He retired in—1845, I think, but he kept his hand in a bit. A lot of his work, in London at least, got destroyed somehow, but what’s still standing is brilliant in its symmetry. A _master_ of subtle stability. And it’s interesting that his buildings have a higher percentage of paranormal sightings than any other architect of that school or style, I think. Might be why he rarely got taken up on his bids to design churches. His name cropped up any time an especially weird cult or sect popped up for a couple decades after his retirement. There were all sorts of rumors about what he might be involved in.”

They’ve all heard this before, Martin thinks, at least in bits and pieces. Architecture is one of Tim’s particular areas of expertise, and Robert Smirke in particular is something of an obsession. There’s not a lot of information out there about Smirke, though. Martin should know; he usually got the thankless tasks when he worked in the library, and he’d been the one assigned to pull any books on Robert Smirke for the new research assistant who was vague on _what,_ exactly, he was trying to research. It’s one of the things he and Tim bonded over when they were first assigned to the Archives, those books. Tim will go off about Smirke any opportunity he gets, and Martin’s pretty sure that even Sasha tunes him out these days.

“Most of them false,” Jon Prime agrees. “Smirke himself wasn’t actually involved in any of that sort of thing, but his ideas got used—or misused, as he would have it.” He takes a deep breath. “Smirke designed a taxonomy of fears, and—well, it’s inaccurate, really, far too simplistic, an attempt to understand something that he never could have understood, but—”

“But if you’re learning your colors, you start out with the primary colors and branch out into shades and blending later on, once you know what you’re looking at,” Martin completes.

“Exactly.” Jon Prime smiles, briefly. “Smirke’s theory was that there were fourteen…entities, creatures of fear. They don’t just thrive on it—they _are_ fear.”

“There are more than fourteen things to be afraid of in the world,” Jon says, in a rough approximation of his skeptic voice. “Where do you draw the line?”

“God, you _are_ me. I said the same thing when I first found out about all this.” Jon Prime worries at the cuff of his sleeve, then seems to consciously stop himself and press his palm into his leg instead. It’s only then that Martin realizes he’s wearing the blue sweater, the one Martin Prime wore yesterday and Martin himself has taken off because he’s comfortable enough in his shirtsleeves, and Martin Prime is wearing the dark green one Jon Prime was wearing when he came in. It fits him perfectly, which is how Martin realizes that Jon Prime was evidently wearing one of Martin Prime’s sweaters.

He has no idea what to do with that information, so he decides the safest thing to do is ignore it before he blurts out something and makes a complete tit of himself.

“As Martin says, they’re like colors,” Jon Prime continues. “You can look at something and call it ‘indigo’ or ‘lilac’, but it’s still purple. There may be infinite colors, but we tend to lump them into bigger categories. Sky blue and navy are both considered blue, but pink is an entirely separate color from red. Of course, with the fears, it’s not so much a spectrum as an amorphous blob of terror bleeding out in all directions. I think I summed it up at the time I learned all this as ‘like colors, but if colors hated me.’”

“You, specifically,” Tim says. His voice is as deadpan as it usually is when he’s making a joke, but like Jon’s, it’s shaky. Martin suspects that none of them _want_ to believe any of this, but it all makes too much sense for them not to.

“Yes, well, I’d spent two years getting kicked around by them before I got all this information,” Jon Prime shoots back. “Forgive me if I took it a little personally.”

Martin Prime rubs his thumb over Jon Prime’s in a comforting gesture. “Where Smirke comes into the weird…cults and whatnot is that most of those sprung up around the worship _of_ these beings. Like they’re gods of some kind. They’re not, and they’re certainly not benevolent in the slightest, even to the people most devoted to them. You really can’t—nobody comes away from them in one piece. The ones who make statements? They’re the lucky ones. The ones who walked away, at least for a while. Not always forever.”

Martin doesn’t have to ask if that includes them. “So—w-what are they? I mean, not ‘what are they if they’re not gods’, but what are they, specifically? You said—one of them has something to do with spiders?”

Jon flinches. Jon Prime exhales. “The Web. Spiders, yes, but also…loss of control. Being manipulated. The fear of being trapped in something you can’t see. Addiction falls under its auspices, too.”

“Other insects…” Tim’s voice trails off. “Jane Prentiss. She’s one of them?”

“She wasn’t an entity herself, but she’d definitely been claimed by the Corruption,” Jon Prime confirms. “Insects, disease, rot. Filth. That creeping feeling of things burrowing under your skin, filling you full of holes…”

“Stop,” Jon says through gritted teeth. He squeezes Martin’s hand. Martin’s almost positive he doesn’t know he’s doing it and bites the inside of his cheek to keep from yelping in pain as his thumb digs into one of the worm holes.

“What, you think I don’t know what that’s like?” Jon Prime holds up both hands, backs towards them, letting the sleeves slip down towards his elbows, and they can all see the scars dotting his forearms. So Martin has _that_ to look forward to, at least. “It’s a damned lucky thing you—we—knew how to stop her.”

“Michael.” Sasha leans forward. “He’s one of them. The fear of—confusion?”

Martin Prime nods quickly. “Madness. The fear that your mind isn’t your own. The entity as a whole is the Spiral. Michael—he’s just one aspect of it, the Distortion.”

Jon eases his grip on Martin’s hand, and Martin tries not to sigh audibly with relief. “The Dark, of course.”

“Of course,” Jon Prime agrees. “Who isn’t at least a little afraid of the dark?”

“And fire is another?”

“An aspect of the Desolation. The fear of pain, of loss, of unthinking or cruel destruction.” Jon Prime snorts. “I started calling it the Church of the Lightless Flame at one point, but it’s the Desolation.”

“The Lightless Flame,” Jon repeats. “Christ, that was—which statement was that? Th-the nurse, Ms. Saraki, with the burn victims. The second time Gerard Keay came up.”

Martin remembers, and just like that, he realizes that they must have dealt with _all_ the entities, over the course of the statements. They’ve done too many _real_ statements for them not to have hit all fourteen by now. He racks his brain, trying to figure out the ones they haven’t come up with. They’ve got five now. The People’s Church of the Divine Host, they’ve had a couple statements dealing with that, that’s probably the Dark…and maybe the one about the woman whose sister got lost caving, but—hang on.

“Claustrophobia’s one, isn’t it?” he guesses. “Or…small spaces? Being enclosed or—or buried alive?” He tries not to let his voice shake when he says it, but like Jon and spiders, that’s one he’s never been able to handle.

From the look on Jon Prime’s face, he knows that—of course he does. “The Buried. Being crushed alive, not able to breathe—not having enough space.”

“A-and then there’s having too _much_ space,” Martin says quickly, trying to push the mental image of being trapped in a coffin or a cave out of his head. “Heights and—and empty spaces, that sort of thing? Like—hang on, which one was it—that first statement we looked into where someone found a Leitner, _Ex Altoria_ —”

“The Vast,” Martin Prime supplies. “Vertigo, agoraphobia, deep water, fear of your own insignificance in the universe. Any time you come across the name Fairchild, especially Simon Fairchild, that’s definitely a sign you’ve come across the Vast.”

Tim counts on his fingers. “We’re halfway there…I guess death is one of them, huh? I mean, a lot of people are afraid of that.”

“Terminus. The End. Simple, but always there.”

“War’s part of that, I guess?”

Jon Prime shakes his head. “War is the Slaughter. Not unstoppable like the End, or targeted or premeditated. Just pure, unpredictable violence.”

Sasha sits forward a little. “We keep—there have been a lot of statements about…meat. What’s with that?”

Martin’s wondered that himself. Jon Prime grimaces. “The Flesh. The fear of being eaten, or…twisted.”

“ _The Boneturner’s Tale,”_ Jon murmurs. Martin wishes it didn’t hurt so much to hold someone’s hand, because he wants to comfort Jon somehow. He knows how much he hates those Leitner books, which makes sense if he encountered one once. “Hang on, though—how is that so common that it’s one of the major fourteen? There can’t be _that_ many people afraid of it.”

Jon Prime gives a soft huff of laughter. It doesn’t sound particularly amused, though. “You think only humans feel fear?”

Martin’s eyes widen as he thinks about the statement they spent the last week looking into, the man who worked at the abattoir and the man who disappeared. It’s almost enough to turn him vegetarian. Almost. “Is that why those statements are all so…weird?”

“More or less. You start mixing more primitive, animalistic fear with a complicated human brain, and things get twisted.”

“Hunting’s not part of that, though,” Sasha says.

“No,” Martin Prime says quietly, and something flashes across his face. “The Hunt is its own entity. It’s another one that started with animals, but it still touches _plenty_ of humans.”

Tim scans Martin Prime’s face, eyes flicking back and forth. “You don’t like that one much, do you?”

“It’s definitely one of my least favorite, yes.”

“So…” Tim glances at Martin, and there’s genuine worry in his eyes before he looks back at Martin Prime. “You’ve encountered it? Did it…do something to you?”

“Yes,” Jon Prime says, at the same time that Martin Prime says, “Not to _me._ ”

They look at each other, or at least in one another’s direction, since Martin Prime can’t see—at least Martin is _assuming_ he’s really blind, he’s still wearing his glasses, although Martin’s worn glasses since he was two years old and at this point he probably feels naked without them—and then Martin Prime amends, “Not directly. Not before the world ended.”

Jon Prime rubs his throat absently, but doesn’t say anything. There’s a long silence before Jon speaks, a single word that drops into the middle of the room like a lead balloon. “Isolation.”

“The Lonely,” Jon Prime says softly. He turns to look at the others, and Martin flinches at the pain in his eyes. “The feeling that you’re…alone. Maybe because there’s no one there, maybe because you just can’t connect. Maybe because you aren’t worth that connection.”

Something twists deep in Martin’s chest. He knows that feeling all too well; it basically encapsulates his strange, unhappy childhood. Tim’s arm drops lightly onto Martin’s shoulders, his hand brushing Jon’s beyond it, and when Martin glances Tim’s way he sees that his other arm is behind Sasha—like he’s reminding all three of them that they’re _not_ alone, that they’re all here together. “Why do you look like you hate that one so much? I mean…that one doesn’t sound too dangerous, compared to the others.”

“I’m not fond of anything that tries to take someone I care about away from me. And the Lonely very nearly succeeded.” Jon Prime’s eyes flick over to Martin Prime, just briefly. “In truth, the only one I can honestly say I hate more than the Lonely is the Stranger.”

Martin Prime nods, his lips pressed tightly together. Sasha looks back and forth between the two of them. “That’s…fear of the unknown?”

“The unknown, the uncanny, the creeping sense that something isn’t right,” Jon Prime confirms. “The fear of someone who might be following you. Masks, mannequins…clowns.”

A shudder runs through Tim’s body. Sasha exhales. “Well, that’s…that’s thirteen. Funny, you’d expect there to only be thirteen fears, right? I mean, that’s a bad luck number to a lot of people.”

“Yeah, but this is Robert Smirke we’re talking about,” Martin says absently. “His big thing was balance—” He stops as the words leave his mouth and straightens. _Balance._ Everything has an opposite, something that counters it. You can’t fear being buried alive if you don’t know there’s such a thing as open space. You can’t fear random, purposeless violence if you don’t know that there’s another way of dying violently. Which means…what’s the opposite of the Stranger?

“Knowledge,” he breathes. “That’s the fourteenth fear? The fear of—of being known, of being _watched?_ Or of knowing too much?”

“The Beholding,” Jon Prime says. “The Ceaseless Watcher. It Knows You. It’s got a lot of names.”

“We usually just call it the Eye,” Martin Prime adds.

_I should have realized that whatever hid you from the Eye would mean I couldn’t see you either._ Martin recalls Jon Prime’s half-frantic spewing of words when he first arrived. He thinks about the sensation they all get in the Archives of being watched, the near-compulsive way they prod into things that… _really_ ought to be left alone, the way Jon gets twitchy when he reads the statements aloud, the sick feeling in his stomach when he couldn’t find anything on _Ex Altoria_ and the headache that hadn’t gone away until he’d gone back to Carlos Vittery’s old apartment. “That’s the one that runs the Institute, then.”

“ _What?_ ” All three of the other members of the Archival team stare at Martin with varying degrees of incredulity. He blushes.

Jon Prime nods. “More accurate, I think, to say that the Institute was set up for its benefit, but yes. The Institute is the Eye’s pedestal. And you are all bound to its service. I’m sorry.”

“No. No, no, _no,_ I did _not_ sign up for this.” Tim looks seriously upset. “I’m here to _stop_ this sort of thing, not to join it—”

“So quit,” Jon Prime says, a bit sharply, looking Tim square in the eye.

Tim freezes. “What?”

“Quit. Walk away. Lean around and give your notice, right now. Tell him you’re done.”

If anything, that just makes Tim even more upset. Martin has never seen him so agitated—he looks almost like he’s on the verge of literal tears. “What the hell happens to me?” he blurts out. “First you think I’d actually make tasteless jokes about Martin being _blind,_ now you think I’d just—walk away? Abandon my friends—my _family?_ What the _fuck_ did I do to make you think I’d just leave the only people I have left in the world at the mercy of some gigantic spooky fear monster?”

Jon Prime jerks back as if Tim has slapped him. He looks genuinely taken aback. Now _Martin_ is wondering what happened to Tim in their timeline. Why he didn’t come back with them, why they both seem to simultaneously miss him and expect him to just up stakes and vanish.

“Tim, no, it’s not like that,” Martin Prime intervenes, his voice gentle. “Trust me, if you did quit, the rest would be right behind you. The point is that you _can’t._ ”

“Damn right,” Tim mutters.

“No, literally. You _can’t_ quit. You’re bound to the Institute—well, to the Archives really. You can’t quit, you can’t get fired. You can’t even leave for too long or you’ll start to get sick. Physically, mentally, _literally,_ you cannot quit.”

That, Martin thinks, might be the most surprising thing he’s learned in the last week. He thinks this rather distantly, since it’s hard to focus through the white noise seeming to fill his mind. He remembers the resignation letters he typed up but deleted without even saving, let alone printing. Remembers, too, Sasha muttering about looking for another job and then never bringing it up again. It’s not like there’s no evidence for what Martin Prime is saying, but it’s still out of the clear blue sky and he’s not sure what to do with the information.

This time, it’s Jon that breaks the silence, his voice choked and shaky. “Oh, God.”

“There’s _no_ way out?” Sasha demands. “Truly? There has to be _something_ —something other than dying, I mean. You can’t honestly be saying we’re inevitably stuck until we die.”

“There’s—well, for you all there are two ways out,” Martin Prime says slowly. “Neither one is particularly pleasant, and, well, one of them does involve death. If—if the Archivist dies, then the Assistants have the option of leaving.”

Nope. No, Martin is not going to consider that an option. Jon is _not_ going to die just so the rest of them can be freed. “And the other way out? The one that _doesn’t_ involve dying?”

Martin Prime tips his head to one side, as if he’s studying Martin. “You have to remove your connection to the Beholding.”

Martin snorts. “So, what…gouge your eyes out or something?”

Jon Prime and Martin Prime both simply look at him, or at least in his direction. Jon Prime still looks haunted; Martin Prime just looks serious. Ice water floods Martin’s veins. “ _Fuck off._ ”

“Yep, he’s me,” Martin Prime says to Jon Prime. He rubs his thumb over the back of Jon Prime’s again. “Jon, _breathe._ It’s all right.”

“It’s…” Jon Prime closes his eyes and shakes his head slowly. When he opens them again, they’re wet with unshed tears as they flick back and forth from Jon to Tim. “God, I thought this part would be easier. I don’t know why. It’s never easy. But I thought…I am _sorry._ ”

“You didn’t do this,” Martin protests. He looks at Jon, _their_ Jon, and back to Jon Prime. “Either of you. It’s not—I mean, you didn’t set this up to be like this. And, and you didn’t force us to do this—”

“I _requested_ you,” Jon protests.

“You didn’t request me,” Martin says. Jon looks away, evidently uncomfortable with the reminder. “Anyway, I wouldn’t have said no even if Elias had actually given me a choice, so—”

“Hang on, what?” Jon Prime blinks, then turns to Martin Prime. “You—you didn’t get a _choice?_ ”

“No,” Martin Prime says. His eyes widen. “Christ, I never—how did that not ever occur to me? He called me into his office and told me he’d finally appointed a new Head Archivist and that he’d decided to send me along as one of your assistants, that I would be down there first thing on Monday. I don’t think I even had time to say _thanks_ before he sent me off to pack up my desk in the library.”

“Oh, God.” Jon Prime turns to Tim and Sasha. “What about you? Were you asked or told?”

“I—” Sasha frowns at him. “I didn’t—”

**“Answer the question, Sasha.”**

Static crackles in the air, and Sasha answers immediately. “Told. Elias said that he’d decided to go in a different direction than hiring me as Head Archivist, but he was sure I could still be useful to the Archives and that Jon would need me as an assistant. I told him if I wasn’t going to get the job I had applied for I’d be happier staying where I was, and he replied that wasn’t an option.” She presses a hand to her mouth, her eyes widening as she looks over at Jon. “Oh, God, I—Jon, I don’t—I’m sorry, I—”

_“Jon_ ,” Martin Prime says, exasperation and disapproval and maybe a bit of worry in his tone. It sounds like a five-minute lecture condensed into a single word.

“Sorry. I’m so sorry. I—I didn’t mean to do that, I wasn’t _thinking…_ ” Jon Prime inhales sharply and rubs at his face with the hand not now gripping Martin Prime’s so tightly his fingertips are going white. “I-it’s been so long since I’ve dealt with—it, it’s not the same, I’ve gotten so used to— _I am sorry._ I swear I won’t do that again.”

“What did you do?” Martin asks. He probably shouldn’t, but it sounds like it’s genuinely upsetting Jon Prime, and if they can stop Jon from having to do it as well, it’s probably not a bad thing.

“I—I compelled her. It’s one of the abilities I have from the Eye. I can—make people tell me things. Force statements out of them, that sort of thing.” Jon Prime uncovers his face, and he looks almost as upset as Tim did at being told to try and quit. “It’s invasive, and I try not to do it more than I have to and—I am _so_ sorry, Sasha.”

“Wait, you can do that?” Tim leans around Martin to frown at Jon. His eyes are red-rimmed and his face is still pale, but he looks at least a little calmer.

“No,” Jon says, sounding genuinely distressed. “Of course not.”

“Not quite to that extent,” Martin Prime says. “It’s something that…develops, I guess?”

Jon Prime looks at Martin Prime in worry and confusion. “No, no, I—I didn’t start being able to do that until after—”

“Jon, I wasn’t going to tell you Gertrude Robinson had been shot until they confirmed that was what killed her,” Martin Prime said quietly. “Or at least until you’d slept some. You looked like hell and—last thing I wanted was you panicking that someone was running around gunning for you, _literally_. I didn’t realize it then, just assumed I was, I don’t know, trying to make you less agitated. That maybe if you knew for sure you wouldn’t be up all night torturing yourself or whatever. But…well, later on, I started learning what to listen for, and I realized what it was. I don’t know if it would have worked if I hadn’t been so tired, or if it was something I really didn’t want to tell you, but you _did_ compel me to answer you. At least a little.”

“You never told me.”

“It never really came up?”

“God. All this time I thought—Martin, you—you _know_ I’d never—I d-didn’t ever want to—I wouldn’t have—”

“Okay, you are starting to spiral.” Martin Prime turns his hand over and squeezes Jon Prime’s, then reaches forward like he’s going for the other one. “Maybe we should stop for a few minutes and—”

“No, I-I’m fine. I’m fine.” Jon Prime takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, then looks back up at Jon and the others sitting on Tim’s sofa. “We need to…there’s more we need to discuss.”

Martin thinks to himself that he’s never seen someone obviously _less_ fine, and at first he assumes Jon Prime is only getting away with it because Martin Prime can’t actually see the look on his face. But a quick glance at Martin Prime shows otherwise. Martin Prime is _absolutely_ aware of Jon Prime’s condition, maybe better than anyone else in the room, but he’s letting him get away with it for reasons of his own. He’s sure that won’t last long, though. They’ve got to speed this up, but the trouble is that the whole situation is taking on the aspect of a hydra. For every question answered, three more questions pop up, and Martin no longer knows where the thread is going. If he ever knew in the first place.

“Okay, so…wait. W-wait. Let me make sure I’ve got everything straight so far,” he says, more to give everyone else a bit of breathing room than anything else. He’s just as confused and off-balance, probably, but he’s not going to show it. “Fourteen fear beings, each with their own…followers and paths and all that. One of them is in charge of the Institute. We’re all trapped in its service as long as it can…use us. Jon—I’m guessing since he’s the Head Archivist, he’s…closer to it than the rest of us are, which is why he’s got some of its powers. Most of the statements, the _real_ statements, the ones that won’t go on the computer, they’re somehow related to at least one of the entities. And it’s only going to get worse from here on out. Have I got all that right?”

“Basically, yes.” Jon Prime manages a smile. “Although hopefully we can keep it from getting _too_ much worse.”

“Right, okay.” Martin tries to think of where to go next. “So, ah, so—Elias. How—how much does he know? I mean, he’s the head of the Institute, but…does he know about…all of this? The fears and the Archives and—everything?”

“He said he usually knows what’s going on in the Institute,” Tim says, his voice tight. He draws his arms from the back of the sofa and clenches his fists, resting them on his thighs. “And _you_ sounded a lot like you hated him when we talked earlier. It’s because he knows all this crap, isn’t it? He knew all of it and he let us walk in blind. Ah, no offense.”

“That,” Martin Prime says, “is barely scratching the surface. And none taken. But yes. He knows all of it.”

“That’s…” Martin swallows hard, fighting down the resurgence of nausea. “That’s kind of messed up.”

Jon Prime lets out a bitter and brittle laugh. “Oh, you have _no_ idea.”

“So tell us,” Sasha says. “You said you’d tell us what you wanted to know.”

“Yes. And Gertrude Robinson _did_ attempt to leave a warning for me, it—she just wasn’t able to.” Jon Prime takes a deep breath. “Elias. He—was originally known as Jonah Magnus. Before he was Elias Bouchard, he was James Wright.”

“ _What?_ ” Martin’s voice jumps to a pitch he hasn’t hit since he was sixteen.

“No. No, that doesn’t make any _sense._ ” Sasha presses her fingertips to her temples. “Elias Bouchard was hired at the Magnus Institute _by_ James Wright. He’d been here for five years when Wright died and Elias was promoted directly from filing clerk to head of the Institute. They were in the same place at the same time, they were both _there._ They _can’t_ be the same person.”

“Unless Wright killed him and took his place,” Tim mutters.

Martin Prime winces. “That’s…kind of close to what happened, actually. Jonah Magnus has been body-hopping for generations, to keep himself alive. Finding a new vessel every time the old one starts getting…well, old. It’s the eyes. I mean, Elias’ eyes, they’re actually Jonah Magnus’ eyes. That’s how he takes over.”

Yeah, okay, Martin is _definitely_ going to be sick now. He presses a hand to his mouth. Jon’s entire body goes rigid. “My God, how deep did he _go_ into servitude to this…thing?”

“All the way,” Jon Prime says grimly. “In addition to whatever it is he does to transfer his…essence to his new bodies…and believe me, that is _not_ something I have ever wanted to know in detail…he has some powers of clairvoyance. He can see out of any eye, real or symbolic. He can also read minds, to a limited extent, and implant images in the mind.”

“What, like…make you hallucinate?” Sasha sounds almost as curious as she does concerned.

Martin Prime shakes his head. “Not exactly. More like…he can make you picture things in your head. Events, memories…perceptions.”

Martin has to swallow twice before he can speak, in a voice much smaller than usual. “Is…is that what you meant? When you said…” He trails off, hoping Martin Prime remembers the conversation without him having to repeat it.

“Yes,” Martin Prime says quietly. “Mind you, I don’t know how much of what he showed me was based on reality and how much of it was based on…I mean, she’s not well. But yes.”

It doesn’t take a huge leap of logic for Martin to figure out what his counterpart means. Whatever Elias showed him, it’s something to do with his—their—mother. Tim’s the one who speaks up next. “Can he see us now, though? Like, if he can see through any eye, read minds…can he see us?”

“In theory, possibly. In practice, no,” Jon Prime answers. “I’ve…taken precautions. Besides, the Archivist is very closely tied to the Eye, so it’s possible that there being _two_ of us here will create enough of a feedback loop that the room will function as a—a blind spot, so to speak. Too much interference for him to See properly in here.”

“But ordinarily?”

“If he tries…yes. I _think_ the three of you are safe, more or less. You’re not his focus. And since he’s deliberately keeping your Archivist in the dark, obviously he doesn’t think any of you know anything.”

Sasha nods slowly. “So that feeling we get in the Archives, like we’re being watched—that’s Elias? Excuse me, Jonah?”

“No, that’s the Eye itself,” Martin Prime answers. “We’re…pretty sure Elias can only see out of one set of eyes at a time? And he has to be able to give it some attention. When he’s focused on something else, you’re safe. That feeling of being watched, though, that’s the Beholder. I mean, they don’t call it the _Ceaseless_ Watcher for nothing.”

“Is _it_ watching us now?” Sasha asks. “Or does it only watch us at the Institute?”

“I—” Jon Prime hesitates. His lips part and his eyes go slightly unfocused.

“Jon, _no—_ ” Martin Prime begins, his face going pale.

There’s another crackle of static, like when Jon Prime asked the question that Sasha had to answer, but it rapidly increases in pitch and volume until it’s more like a squeal of feedback. Martin screws up his eyes and tries to cover his ears, but the noise seems to be transmitted through his very teeth and bones—

And then, abruptly, it vanishes, leaving an almost ringing silence in its wake. Martin opens his eyes to see Jon Prime gasping heavily for air, his eyes closed, his whole body trembling.

“Oh, God, that hurt,” he pants.

“You _know_ an eye can’t see inside itself, Jon,” Martin Prime says sternly. His expression immediately softens, though, as he reaches over tentatively and places his hand on Jon’s back, rubbing gently. Martin swallows down on no small amount of jealousy, which is a stupid and _totally_ inappropriate reaction under the circumstances. “Okay. I’m putting my foot down. Now we _have_ to do the statement.”

“Yes, I…I don’t think I can…last much longer if we…don’t.” Jon Prime’s voice is a mere thread, and he’s slurring his words.

“What are you talking about?” Jon frowns.

“I…” Jon Prime flounders for a moment, then looks up at Martin Prime in mute appeal. After a second, he seems to realize that won’t work and touches Martin Prime’s thigh.

It can’t be that much force, but Martin Prime evidently feels it. Something flickers over his face briefly, and Martin knows with utmost certainty that he wants to wrap Jon Prime in a hug and hold him until he stops shaking. Martin’s felt that desire with Jon more than once, but he also knows it’s a desire that isn’t going to lead anywhere any time soon; Jon seems to avoid physical contact like the plague. They’ve touched more in the last twelve hours than Martin thinks they’ve touched in the entire almost-year they’ve known each other and he’s sure it’s going to stop as soon as the shock of seeing the chaos at the Archives wears off. And despite the relieved way Jon Prime and Martin Prime clung to each other when Jon Prime first showed up, Martin’s pretty sure a protective cuddle is still out of the question.

“The statements feed the Ceaseless Watcher,” Martin Prime explains slowly. “He’s tied very closely to it, which means…well, to a certain extent, they feed him, too. At any rate, the longer he goes without a statement, the—the weaker he gets? And using his powers drains him faster. What he just did, in addition to being _incredibly_ ill-advised to begin with, pushed him way too far. If he doesn’t get a statement, _now,_ it might actually kill him.”

“I—I don’t actually—I mean, it’s not like we just keep those on hand,” Jon stammers. He looks shaken, which, well, Martin can understand that. It’s not easy staring down your own future, and this isn’t exactly something to look forward to.

“Too stale,” Jon Prime says hoarsely. He takes a deep breath and sort of manages to straighten up, but frankly, he looks like hell.

“He hasn’t had one since he got back, a week ago now,” Martin Prime elaborates. “And the old statements, they—don’t have the same power to them? It’s like trying to live off of granola bars. It’s possible, but it _really_ sucks, and they don’t keep you going as well as a good meal. He needs a live statement.” He taps his temple lightly. “Fortunately, I have one on hand.”

“What, you’ve just been hoarding them?” Tim asks.

Martin Prime actually smiles a little, obviously not offended. “My journey back here wasn’t exactly straightforward, you might say.” The smile vanishes as he adds, “M-maybe we should…try to go into the other room, Jon. Or you all should leave. This might be a bit…much.”

“We’re staying,” Jon says firmly. “Tone it down if you have to, but—I can’t walk away from this, I don’t think.”

“He’s right,” Jon Prime says. He turns his exhausted eyes onto Martin Prime. “They won’t…don’t make them try to imagine it.”

Martin swallows, but tries not to visibly react otherwise. Jon Prime is right. Knowing the little bit that he knows…he won’t be able to stop himself from coming up with dozens of possible scenarios, and all of them will probably be _way_ worse than just knowing the truth.

Martin Prime sighs heavily, then nods. “All right. Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you all on Thursday for a fun and exciting round of "Let's See Who Can Kill You Worse, Jonny Sims Or Me"!


	15. Statement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Statement of Martin Blackwood regarding...his travels back in time through the domain of the Spiral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I win the Me Vs. Jonny Sims Angst-Off this week. (Maybe. YMMV.) I intended to post this chapter as soon as I finished listening to this week's ep, but it's taken me until now to get the internet to cooperate. Whatever, it's working now.
> 
> The original version of this chapter was posted as part of Whumptober ([All the Million Hours](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27192418)). I obviously hadn't started writing the fic as a whole yet, and also MAG187 hadn't dropped yet. When that did happen, I debated whether or not to keep the original plan for the fic/chapter as is or update it. I ended up deciding to update it, and then ended up needing to update it further as I made changes to formatting and structure. (Fun fact, this is the chapter that was the reason I had to pull apart Ch10 and redo it.) So yes, if you've read All the Million Hours, this fic will be substantially different and I hope that's all right.
> 
> Also: In light of both the fact that we're approaching ever closer to the end of the series and that one line in today's episode (I won't mention it here just in case you haven't listened yet, but those of you who have probably know which one I mean), I went ahead and added the "Eventual Happy Ending" tag to the fic. I figured most of you who were reading already had already figured out that I wasn't going to pull the rug out from under you, but just in case.
> 
> P.S. On a personal note, to anyone who was wondering, my brother's feeling better and my mom and I both tested negative. However, work won't let us come back in until he also tests negative, and we're still waiting on his results. My uncle gets tested today.

[CLICK]

**ARCHIVIST**

_(drained and weak)_ Let me…go grab a recorder.

**MARTIN**

Do you really need one?

**ARCHIVIST**

It would make me feel better about the whole thing. Makes it feel…

**MARTIN**

Real?

**ARCHIVIST**

…Important. It _is_ important. To me. Even if… _it_ doesn’t think so.

**SASHA**

Wait, do you hear something?

**PAST ARCHIVIST**

…Yes. Like a-a whirring sound?

**TIM**

Oh, goddammit.

[SOUND OF A TAPE RECORDER BEING SET DOWN ON A LEVEL SURFACE]

**MARTIN**

_(heh)_ Guess it thinks it’s important, too.

**ARCHIVIST**

I guess so.

…

**MARTIN**

Are you gonna say it?

**ARCHIVIST**

Do you _want_ me to?

**MARTIN**

I-I mean, I think you have to? If it’s recording…you have to do it the right way or it doesn’t…count. Right?

**ARCHIVIST**

…Right. You’re right.

Statement of Martin Blackwood, regarding…his travels back in time through the domain of the Spiral. Recorded direct from subject, fourth May, 2016. Statement begins.

**MARTIN (STATEMENT)**

I think the first thing that struck me was the décor.

Silly, isn’t it? To think that the domain of something that literally thrives on disorientation and chaos would be remotely like I expected it to be? But I did, somehow. There were all the descriptions in all the statements we’ve heard, and then the time Tim and I were trapped in those halls, and I...I really thought they would still look like that.

But they didn’t. There was no patterned wallpaper, no carpet runner, no mirrors or photographs or anything like that. The walls were painted, and they were painted in—in jellybean colors. It’s the best way I can describe it. Really, really bright colors, gloss paint. The floors were...tiled, maybe? Linoleum? I wasn’t quite sure, but they were brightly-colored and kind of shiny, too. Even the ceiling. But none of them _matched._ When I first stepped through the door, I was standing in the hallway and the wall in front of me was a yellow so bright it almost hurt my eyes, but the floor was red, the same color as Melanie’s nail polish, and the ceiling was a really vibrant green. It was like standing in the middle of a traffic light.

I heard the door close behind me and sort of figured I was alone, but when I turned around, there was the Keeper, and he was taking something out of the door. I think it might have been a key? He put…whatever it was in his pocket and turned to me. I asked him which way to go.

“It doesn’t work that way, I’m afraid,” he told me. “These halls don’t look the same to us. Just start walking. I’ll meet you when you get to the way out.”

And then he was just...gone. It wasn’t like he walked away, or went through a door or whatever. He was just…gone. Like, well, like he faded into fog.

So I started walking. I thought, well, trying to make any _sense_ of this place was sort of going against the point of it, or leaning into the point of it, or something like that. I-I mean, it’s what the Spiral _wants,_ is that increasing sense of panic and desperation as something that ought to be straightforward and logical, something that ought to take you in a straight line or to a particular place or whatever, keeps befuddling you and turning you around and whatnot. So I thought that if I just accepted that I wasn’t going to find any sense of direction, and that I couldn’t actually know where I _was,_ let alone where I would end up, and just sort of wandered for a bit, I’d eventually get where I was going.

Only it didn’t work that way. The walls kept...changing. So did the floor and the ceiling. I’d know I was passing through another part of the corridors when I’d suddenly go from yellow walls to purple to orange, or the ceiling would go from green to pink to blue, or the floor would go from red to white to teal. I didn’t really pay attention to it, but then I realized I was back in the first part of the corridor. I’d have thought it was just a coincidence—I mean, there are only so many colors in the world and so many different combinations of them you can have—but there was the door, looking totally out of place in the bright, sterile lines of the corridor.

So then I started trying other options. I walked along with my eyes closed for a bit, wondering if maybe the colors were leading me astray, but when I opened them again, it was like I hadn’t moved. I tried heading in the other direction but still not thinking about my route. Same effect.

I was getting frustrated, and I was about to yell for the Keeper to just give it _up_ already, to stop messing about with the hallways and lead me through. I was upset, actually. I mean, I knew it wasn’t really his domain, he probably wasn’t the one controlling it, but when you’re that worked up, you just want someone to blame, and he was handy, really. And I—I don’t like not knowing where I am, or where I’m going.

You know, I never really thought about it before, but...Mum used to...when I was younger, we’d be out somewhere, and she’d suddenly tell me there was something we had to do, and to keep up with her, and then she’d start walking really fast and threading through the crowds, and I’d be stumbling along trying to follow her. She wouldn’t hold my hand or anything, she’d just expect me to stay with her. And she’d never tell me where this “something” was, so any time I fell behind or lost sight of her for a second, I’d start panicking, because if I lost her, I wouldn’t know where to meet up with her. I _did_ lose her a couple of times, and I’d just...start crying, and I never knew where to look for help. I felt like that again. Small. Weak. Helpless. Like I couldn’t do anything right, like I couldn’t do this _one_ little thing she’d asked me to do, which was just...keep...up. And there wasn’t anyone there to help me figure out where the person who’d left me behind was, since I didn’t know where to meet up.

That’s when I thought...wait, I don’t know what route I’m supposed to take, but I _do_ know where I’m going. I know what the end result is, just not how to get there. So I stopped thinking about wandering aimlessly and started thinking about wandering with a _purpose._ I focused on where—and when—we were trying to get. I even closed my eyes for a minute to make sure I was picturing it exactly right. And then I opened my eyes, and I started walking again.

After a while, the hallway started changing, which was how I guessed I was going the right way. The jellybean colors started fading, getting more...muted. Not really pastels, but just less vibrant. They started blending together, too, so they weren’t so weirdly different, like they were hues in a palette. And then they were all grey, featureless stone, like the—well, like the tunnels, only more regular. The grey got darker and darker until suddenly it was almost black. Then there was a carpet up the middle of the stone floor, blood red, and instead of electric lights the walls were lined with torches. I mean actual, fire-burning sticks jammed into wall sconces. I figured I was getting close.

And then...the hallway turned.

Look. I know how those...I know how the Spiral usually works, or at least the Distortion. You can’t _see_ the turns, it looks like it just goes on and on in a straight line forever, because that’s what disorientates you. But this was an actual, L-shaped jog in the corridor. Part of me figured that the Spiral had decided, well, I knew enough to expect certain things, so it would have to throw me off by putting in things I wasn’t expecting—like actual, visible bends in the road. I didn’t doubt that if I tried to go around that corner I’d smack face-first into a wall. But I didn’t doubt for a minute that if I tried to go straight I’d hit a wall, too. You can’t try be logical with the Spiral. You’ll go mad. So I figured the only thing to do was try the corner.

I went around, and...it wasn’t just a hallway. It was more like a...gallery. There were pictures, or paintings, on every wall, in these big, ornate frames, and there was a neat little plaque next to each one with some writing on it. Seemed like it went on forever. I figured...well, it had to be the way through, didn’t it? There wasn’t any other way to go. I assumed there’d be an end eventually, or one of the paintings would be of the door out, or would _be_ the door, or whatever, so I started in.

I looked at the first one, partly because I wondered if I’d recognize the door if I saw it and partly because...well, I was curious. It was very professional-looking. I couldn’t tell if it was a painting or a photograph, actually. It was of a woman, kind of a pretty one really, with her hair pulled up in a high ponytail, and a round face and glasses. She was standing in kind of a dark-ish room, but there was something behind her—a table, maybe? And there was a shadow over her, and she—she was screaming. I wondered who would paint something like that, what they would call it, so I looked at the plaque. It was formatted just like a sign at a museum, with the name of the piece, the name of the artist, and the date of the painting, you know?

But this one...it said, _“I See You”, Sasha James, July 29, 2016._

I hadn’t realized what I was looking at, not at first, but when I looked again...it was the shirt that got me. Dupplin checks in shades of pink and purple. You remember—with the ruffled sleeves and the pearl-and-silver buttons. It was Sasha’s favorite, she wore it all the time. And the woman in the picture was wearing it. That’s when it hit me, all of a sudden, that this wasn’t a painting _by_ Sasha, it was a painting _of_ Sasha. I just hadn’t recognized her, and that was...upsetting.

I turned away from it and looked at the next painting, and I got a real shock when I realized it was a picture of Tim. He was smirking. I—I _knew_ that look of his—it’s the one he always used to get when he was teasing someone, you know? That smile of his that seemed to say “I know you want to hit me but you won’t because I’m so funny”? Except...there was something odd about it. An edge, maybe. His eyes were narrowed and it was obvious that he knew whoever he was talking to _didn’t_ find his joke funny, like it was only funny to him. And he—he had the scars. He didn’t tease anyone like that after the attack on the Institute, or if he did, it was...bitter, so I couldn’t figure out who or what he might have been teasing. So I looked at the plaque for that one.

“ _I Know”, Timothy Stoker, August 7, 2017._

The date. The date’s what hit me. _That’s_ a date I won’t ever forget. I looked back at the picture, and I realized he was holding something in his hand, and the background was...well. There was smoke, and debris, and fire, and it was all starting to—to boil up around him.

I looked back at that first painting, and I saw...things I hadn’t noticed before. I saw that whatever was making the shadow was...reaching for the Sasha in the painting, and I saw...bits, flying around. I realized I was looking at the moment that Sasha saw what was in Artifact Storage with her, and the other picture was the moment between Tim pressing the detonator and—and what came after. I was looking at their deaths.

It was the next one that made me realize what was wrong about it. I mean...I mean, seeing these at _all_ was wrong enough, right? We’re talking _instants,_ split-seconds, something no one should have had time to paint or a good enough camera to photograph. They were almost like someone had flash-frozen the actual, physical moment and put it in a frame. That’s wrong enough, right? But...but it wasn’t until I got to Daisy’s that I actually realized it.

At first blush, it was exactly like the others. That...moment. The plaque. _“Basira”, Detective Alice “Daisy” Tonner, date unknown._ But...but this one I was _there_ for. I remembered that instant. I might have been...a _little_ distracted at the time, but I _was_ looking when Basira emptied her gun into...into whatever Daisy had become. And I know it—she—was looking at Basira, and that she didn’t recognize anyone else.

But in the picture...she wasn’t looking at Basira. I mean, Basira wasn’t exactly _in_ the picture, any more than the not-Sasha was actually in Sasha’s picture or Nikola was in Tim’s. But you could see where she was, where the bullets were coming from. And Daisy wasn’t looking in that direction. She was looking _out,_ through the painting.

She was—she was looking at me. Directly at me. It was like I was back in that junkyard and she was right in front of me, and she saw me, and she _knew_ me. And she was—she was scared, Jon. I could see it in her eyes. She was scared and she was pleading with me to help her, to save her. Maybe she was accusing me a little. Like she was saying _I am dying and you are doing nothing to stop it._

And that’s when it hit me. I hadn’t thought about it before, because I w-wasn’t there for the others when they actually happened, but—but when I looked back at Tim and Sasha, they were looking at me, too. Sasha was scared and Tim was angry and it was clear that they both _knew_ , whenever or— _wherever_ they were, that I was looking at them and that they were dying and I wasn’t doing a damn thing about it.

I—I kept looking. I couldn’t _stop._ There were dozens— _hundreds_ of them, all of them somebody I cared about, or knew, or—or knew of, at least. A lot of the people from the statements. My mother. My grandfather. Gertrude Robinson. Jurgen Leitner. All of them in the exact moments of their deaths, all of them looking at me with either pleading or accusation or both, and I couldn’t do anything about it.

The corridor went on forever, or that’s what it seemed like. It stretched in both directions and I couldn’t escape it. But there was a doorway, and I—I went through it. I don’t know if I thought it was the way I was supposed to go, or if I just wanted to get away from all the damn _pictures_ , but I went through it. And as soon as I did, the door behind me disappeared, so I figured, okay, I’m going the right way. And it calmed me down, but only for a second.

It was a long, narrow room, maybe big enough for a single person to walk. And there were more framed pictures, evenly spaced, lining one side of the wall. The other side was completely bare. When I came in, I was facing the first picture, so I didn’t even have the option of not looking. So I looked.

At first, it didn’t seem too bad, you know? Nothing...deadly. Just a house, and two people. One of them was standing on the threshold of the house, the other on the path leading up to it. The door was open. The person on the path was a little boy, ten at the most, and he looked—terrified. Upset. It was like he wanted to cry or scream but didn’t know if he was allowed, and he was reaching a hand out desperately. The person on the porch was a young man, and he looked like something had caught him off-guard...and there were threads, thin silver strands, seeming to wrap around him, and something dark leaning out of the open door, like it was going to grab him.

For a moment, I was just relieved that neither of them was looking at me. Whatever was going on in the picture, whatever that poor man was involved in or that poor boy was witnessing, neither one of them blamed me for it. And then I realized I recognized something. The little boy’s face—his eyes. I knew those eyes, better than I knew my own.

My breath caught in my throat. I looked at the plaque. All it had was a title and a year. _It Is Polite to Knock, 1996._ That’s all it said...but I knew what it was. What I was looking at. And then, when I looked back at the painting, I could see it, very faintly. On the little boy’s outstretched hand was the lightest outline of a spider’s web.

I moved on to the next painting. I don’t think I could have stopped myself. And it was a man, sitting at his desk, a sheaf of papers in front of him and a tape recorder next to it. He had this...vacant look in his eyes, like he was only partly aware of what was in front of him, and he was wearing a cardigan. He had one hand on the papers, holding them up a little so he could read them, and the fingers on his other hand were tangled up in the cuff of the cardigan, like he was stretching it over his fingers and playing with it. The eyes were behind glasses now, but it was very obviously the same man as the little boy in the first picture. The plaque said _Statement Begins, 2015._ Just over the man’s shoulder was the faintest outline of an eye.

The third one was of the same man. Only this time, he was—he was in pain. His head was thrown back a-and he was screaming, I could almost hear it through the painting. There was another person behind him, another man, and he was screaming too, and standing over them was a woman, o-or what might have _been_ a woman, once, but was honeycombed with white, grotesque worms. There were more of them, and they were—they were attacking the two men, but the one in the foreground, the one who’d been in the other paintings, he was already hurt, and I—I felt so guilty, like it was my fault, even without the man having to look at me and accuse me. He didn’t need to. I was already blaming myself. The plaque said—and it would have made me laugh if I hadn’t been so upset by the picture—it just said _Ah, Shit, 2016._ There wasn’t an outline of anything in that picture, just what was actually there, or at least actually visible.

I—I was having a bit of trouble breathing at this point. I knew what I was looking at, of course I did, but I couldn’t _stop,_ I had to see all of them, so I looked at the fourth one. It was the same man, in the same office as the second picture, even wearing the same damned cardigan. Scars dotting his face and arms now, hair a little longer and with a bit more grey in it, but still the same man. He wasn’t alone, though. There was another...person there. He didn’t look right, like he’d been put together by someone who only had a partial idea of what a human being looked like. His hands—his fingers—looked like they had knives on the end of them instead of fingernails. He was...grinning, but it looked too big for his face. I think he might have been giggling. It looked like he was giggling. And he—he had one finger buried in the man’s side. The man was crying out in pain, but he also looked upset and scared. The plaque read _There Has Never Been a Door There, 2016._ There wasn’t a symbol in that one, either.

The fifth one. The same man again. He was shaking hands with a woman. She was smirking, a really nasty smile, malicious delight. He was screaming, like _seriously_ in agony. Where their hands were clasped, there was a faint wisp of smoke coming up, and I swear I could almost smell burning flesh from where I stood. The plaque read _Just Shake My Hand, 2017._ Still no symbol.

The sixth one. Same man, and another man. The other man had scars, too—Lichtenberg figures, you know? He looked bored. The first man was panicking. It looked like he was trying to scream, but you could sort of tell he wasn’t actually making any sound. And he was free-falling, they both were, but the other man looked...controlled, somehow? It was obvious only one of them was in any real danger, and it wasn’t the one who’d been struck by lightning. The plaque said _You Need to Learn Some Respect, 2017._ In the sky behind them was the impression of more lightning, but not actual lightning. Just another symbol.

Y—

[SOUNDS OF DISTRESS AND INTERNAL STRUGGLE AS MARTIN AUDIBLY TRIES TO KEEP HIMSELF FROM CONTINUING]

_(in a shaking voice)_ The—the seventh one...oh, God, I almost lost it then and there. It was the same man as in all the other pictures. He was...standing in a clearing. It was dark, and there was—a woman with him. She looked—angry, but also triumphant somehow? She—oh, _God,_ she had him by the throat, and she had a knife pressed against it. There was _so much terror_ in his eyes, and I d-don’t blame him. _I_ was terrified. I wanted to—but I couldn’t _do_ anything. I forced myself to look away from it and look at the plaque. _Stop...Asking...Questions, 2017._ There was no symbol in that picture, but there didn’t need to be, did there?

The eighth one. The man was bound to a chair, in a dark...warehouse? I guess? It was...actually, if I hadn’t known what it was, and, you know, I hadn’t already been on the verge of a complete breakdown, I might’ve appreciated the painting as being kind of _artistic._ There were these shadowy figures all around him, but they weren’t people. They were...pretty obviously waxwork mannequins. In front of him was a woman, pretty, but...I don’t know how to explain it. I’m fairly certain she was another mannequin, but she seemed _alive_ , too. She was giving him this...almost impish grin, holding a tape recorder up in front of him. He was gagged, pretty thoroughly, and you could see he was straining against his bindings, and his eyes were panicky. The plaque said _I Thought You’d Make a Lovely Frock, 2017._ The shadows overhead made up an outline that kind of looked like a mask, one of those blank, featureless ones.

The n-ninth...I think that’s when I started crying. Didn’t look like all that much really, not compared to the others, but it was the man, lying in a grey hospital bed. Perfectly still. All the monitors perfectly flat but one. The plaque read _Make Your Choice, 2018._ Over the man’s face was a shadow that was...kind of shaped like a scythe.

The tenth. Actually a bit of a relief after that one, although it shouldn’t have been. It was the man and two women. They were in...what looked like a makeshift bunker of sorts. There was a bloody sheet, and the leg on one woman was bleeding. Honestly, it was all kind of chaotic, but the—the focal point was the woman with the bleeding leg, holding something sharp in her hand, jamming it into the man’s shoulder. The plaque said _Don’t Touch Me, 2018._ It was back to there not being a symbol in the picture.

The eleventh...was bad. There was the man who’d been in all the other pictures, and there was...calling it a man would be charitable. It was a mountain of flesh with a face. Enormous and bulging and... _gross._ It had its hand in the man’s torso and seemed to be pulling out one of his ribs, which was _not_ a pleasant sight _at all,_ and something about the man’s expression...I don’t think the actual extraction was a surprise, but it was obvious he hadn’t expected it to _hurt_ quite as much as it did. The plaque read _Mine Now, 2018._ No symbol in this one, either.

The twelfth. It was mostly dark. There was the man, and—and the woman from the seventh painting, the one who...but she was scared in this one. So was he. They were both...pressed under dirt and rocks, and they both looked like they might be struggling to breathe. They were gripping one another’s wrists, not really holding hands, just like they were trying to maintain that contact and not...lose one another. The man had a tape recorder in his other hand. The plaque said _There Isn’t Even an Up, 2018._ Just barely visible in the dirt above them was the faint outline of a coffin.

The thirteenth. Unlucky number thirteen, but actually, it was the most peaceful one out of all of them. The man was standing in front of an open door. Inside was...black, but it was the purest, richest black you’ve ever seen in your life. He had a look on his face, both awestruck and terrified. The plaque said _It’s Beautiful, 2018._ There was a symbol overhead—a curved line with four lines coming off of it, like a drawing of a closed eye.

The—the fourteenth. There was the man, standing in the middle of this thick, grey fog. It was swirling all around him. He was...the expression on his face…h-he was panicked and terrified and upset and...all of it. It looked like he might have been about to cry. His teeth were clenched and he was—he was looking around him. Like he was trying to—to find something. The plaque said _I Did This to Him, 2018._

I don’t know if there was a symbol in that one. Maybe not. I couldn’t look hard enough, because that was when I broke.

I fell on my knees. I was sobbing and gasping for breath. I was...definitely having a full-on panic attack. There was another painting on the hall, I could _feel_ it, but I was fighting the urge to get up and look at it. I _wanted_ to, something was compelling me to, but I c-couldn’t, because I _knew_ what it would be of. I knew I’d look at it and see the cabin, and the statement, and the look on the man’s face, and the world ending outside the window. I could _hear_ that moment, the rushing of wind, the gathering storm. I swear I could hear the other paintings, too—the gasping and the screaming, worms squirming and crickets chirping, the crash of the ocean and the rush of the wind, beeps and creaks and static, so much static—and it was just...it was just so much.

I was just about to turn around and look, because I couldn’t _not,_ when I heard a voice say, “ _Enough_.”

The noises stopped. I hadn’t realized they were anywhere but in my own head until that moment, but all I could hear then was me. I looked up and...the room had changed. It was plain grey stone, just a small antechamber really. The wall in front of me was blank.

I was still struggling to catch my breath, and I know I was still crying, but I turned and saw the Keeper standing next to me. His arms were crossed over his chest and he was…he was furious.

“If I ever found out who did that, we’re going to have a little...chat,” he growled. “And they won’t like it.” He looked at me for a minute, and then his face kind of softened and he added, “On the other hand, they’ll like having a chat with _me_ more than they’d like having a chat with the Archivist. If he finds them first, I want to be there to watch.”

He helped me up. I was still struggling to get myself back together. The Keeper hugged me for a minute, then turned me around and pointed to a picture on the wall behind me.

“Here,” he said. “Look at this one instead, until you feel better. There’s time.”

This picture...i-it was the same man as in the other pictures, but he looked...he was still tired, but calmer. He wasn’t afraid. Quite the opposite, actually. He was sitting on one end of a ratty old sofa, wearing a sweater that was way too big for him, hair pulled back out of his eyes. He was looking up at—he _was_ looking directly at me, and he was smiling. He was reaching out his hands, one sort of turned under like he was going to be taking something.

I remembered that moment. I could _feel_ it. That first night in the cabin, we’d just had dinner. You’d cooked, so I’d told you to go sit down in the other room while I cleaned up, and then I made tea and brought it out. You were lost in thought at first, but when I came in, you looked up at me and smiled, just like that, and I—I felt _safe,_ for the first time in months.

_(heh)_ That was the first time, wasn’t it? The first time you said the words? I tried to play it off, you looked so startled, but then you recovered and doubled down on it and...

It was a good memory.

I stood there for I don’t know how long, staring at that picture, that _moment,_ letting it push all the other ones I’d seen out of my head. Letting myself remember how it felt. Taking that comfort. I could feel myself relaxing, feel myself starting to smile.

From behind me, I only just heard the Keeper say, “Keep looking, Wickie. Keep the picture in your mind. I’m sorry for this.”

A—and then there came the pain. I don’t know how to describe it. A sudden explosion of— _pain_ , like a migraine on steroids. I felt like something— _popped,_ inside my head, just behind my eyes. No...no, not _behind_ them. Not behind.

I don’t think I screamed. I think I wanted to, but it hurt so bad I couldn’t. The world went white, and I could feel something—not tears, something thicker, more gelatinous—trickling, _pouring_ down my cheeks. It was the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life—the worst physical pain, anyway.

And then everything went black. I guess I passed out. Next thing I knew, I heard a voice calling my name, teasing me about long nights and confusing my hours. I opened my eyes and asked what time it was, and Tim told me it was nine in the morning.

I’m just glad I realized what had happened before I said something stupid about the power being out.

**ARCHIVIST**

…

Statement ends.

I…

[TEN SECONDS OF UTTER SILENCE, SAVE THE WHIRRING OF THE RECORDER]

**TIM**

_Fuck._

**MARTIN**

Jon, I’m sorry, I forgot it wouldn’t let me _not—_

**ARCHIVIST**

_(overlapping)_ It wasn’t—

**MARTIN**

—let me skim on the details—

**ARCHIVIST**

No, it’s not—my God, Martin, I-I had no idea…

**MARTIN**

…Yeah, well, I told you it would keep you going for a bit.

**PAST ARCHIVIST**

I—

[RUSTLING, CREAKING NOISE OF SOMEONE GETTING OFF A SOFA WAY TOO FAST]

I—I need—I’ll be—

[RETREATING FOOTSTEPS]

**PAST MARTIN**

Jon, wait—

[SLIGHTLY DISTANT SOUND OF DOOR OPENING AND SHUTTING]

**ARCHIVIST**

I’ll go talk to him. Will you—?

**MARTIN**

We’ll be fine. Just be careful, okay?

**ARCHIVIST**

I promise.

[CLICK]


	16. Sasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the HECK just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Monday! I hope your week is going better than mine is.
> 
> So just as a note, these next two chapters basically happen simultaneously. You're going to get this chapter, which is Team Archives and Martin Prime untangling a few questions, and the next chapter, which will deal with the Jons, and then we'll be back to things being linear. It's not that major of a thing, really, but I just figured I'd clarify, just in case.
> 
> And for anyone who might be wondering: My brother ended up testing positive, which meant I had to get retested, and yep, I'm positive too. Luckily, I basically didn't have any symptoms beyond what I actually mistook for a mild sinus infection, so I'm fine, physically. I'm just stuck in self-isolation for the next two weeks. Which does at least mean I might be able to rebuild my buffer in these chapters...

There’s a long silence after the door shuts behind Jon Prime. Sasha stares at Martin Prime for a long moment, several possible things to say next running through her head. _How did we actually die_ wars with _how much of that really happened_ and a slight humorous side trip into _I don’t think I’ll ever wear this shirt again_ , because of _course_ she’s wearing her favorite shirt today, as well as _what words did Jon say in that memory_ and _if he was in the other fourteen why did you talk like it was an unknown subject_.

What actually comes out of her mouth at last is, “Wickie?”

Martin Prime sighs heavily. “It’s…an old name for a lighthouse keeper. Comes from trimming the wicks to keep the light burning.”

“M-my—” Martin rubs his temples hard, almost like he’s trying to manually turn the wheels in his brain. “Dad used to call…us that. I’d forgotten…” He looks up at Martin Prime, and Sasha is a little taken aback at the anguish in his eyes. “Is—was it a coincidence or—?”

“No. The Keeper is…he’s part of the Lonely, and maybe a little of the Spiral. The loneliness of distance. Not just being separated from someone you care about, but the specific loneliness that comes when you know _exactly_ where they are but can’t get to them, either because there’s a physical barrier or because you just… _can’t_. The fear that if you reach out to them, they won’t reach back.” Martin Prime closes his eyes for a brief moment. “So the Keeper just…knows those sorts of nicknames. A name given to you by someone you miss…or someone who misses you. Someone you can’t reach, anyway. In this case, though…he knew it because he _is_ the one who gave it.”

Tim’s eyes widen. “Wait, seriously? Does that mean you’re—”

“He made a deal to keep me—us—safe,” Martin Prime interrupts. “It’s why he left in the first place. I can tell you the story some other time, but…maybe not today?”

“No,” Martin agrees in a very small voice. “Not today.”

Tim drapes his arm around Martin’s shoulders and nods. Sasha is more inclined to press, but she swallows down on the urge. Curiosity is all well and good, but she shouldn’t sate it at the expense of her friends, so if they say no to a topic, she’s going to respect that. For now, anyway. Time to pick one of the other avenues of discussion.

She wants to ask about the pictures, get more details about what came before those moments, but something tells her that’s a discussion that needs to happen with the Jons in the room. Also, that’s going to hurt Tim, probably, so she starts running through her other options, looking for the least volatile one.

Tim beats her to it, which is probably a good thing. “So that was the first time…your Jon found out about all that? You didn’t, like, give him a taste last night?”

“No. That…I knew he’d need it. Like I said, he hasn’t had a statement since he got back. Sitting in on your—our, I guess—statements from last night…all that did was take the edge off of things. I knew what I went through was big enough that it’ll keep him going for a bit.”

“Right, but why not at least lay the groundwork? Warn him that it was going to be…bad?”

Martin Prime hesitates, turning in the direction of the door briefly before saying in a low voice, “He can’t always…the hungrier he gets for a statement, the harder it is for him to control himself. The last few months before the world ended? I found out, sort of by accident, that he’d been going out and…pouncing random people for their statements. One of them complained to the Institute and I had to stage an intervention. He’s doing better about it, but I didn’t want to risk tempting him. He’d never forgive himself.”

“For falling off the wagon?” Sasha cocks her head.

Martin Prime turns to look at her, and really, it’s a little unnerving now that she knows he’s blind. It explains why he always looks like he’s looking through her, but it’s still creepy. “It’s a lot more painful when he takes a statement by force. Even if I was going to offer it to him anyway, if he…pounced on it like that, it’d be more intense. He hates it enough when it’s strangers, but if it’s—someone he knows…” He trails off.

“Will that happen to our Jon?” Martin asks. His voice shakes a little when he asks. Sasha wonders how much of that is residual from hearing Martin Prime’s statement and how much of it is actually about Jon.

Martin Prime doesn’t answer for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he says at last. “Probably not so quickly, anyway. Gertrude Robinson…I don’t know if she just never got as bad or if she just could control it better. You can ask Jon later.”

“He won’t pass out if we do, will he?” Tim glances towards the door. Sasha suppresses a smile at the obvious concern on his face. Honestly, Tim fusses just as much as Martin does at times. He’s the consummate big brother, while Martin is something of a mother hen.

“No. What just happened was…he pushed too hard, against the wrong subject. He can’t Know what’s going on inside the Eye. Really, trying to Know anything about _any_ of the entities directly is beyond him, and he _knows_ that.” Martin Prime’s voice sharpens into censure for a moment before he visibly forces himself to relax. “Usually he’s pretty good at knowing his limits.”

“So why did he do that?” Tim asks. “If he knew it would hurt him, why would he push? He’s not that…masochistic usually. That’s your job.”

“Hey,” Martin mumbles, but without any real heat behind it.

“He’s not wrong,” Sasha points out. She’s watched Martin push himself, break himself into smaller and smaller pieces, trying to be what everyone needs him to be, always putting everyone else first.

“I think part of it is that it was something he genuinely wanted to know the answer to,” Martin Prime says. “We’ve never known for sure how much the Beholding can see on its own and how much it needs its…agents to give it. It for sure can watch us at the Institute, but in a very real way, the Institute is _part_ of the Beholding, or vice versa. Honestly, it’s not something we think about much. But knowing Jon, once he had the question in his mind, he had to see if he could find out the answer to it, despite knowing it was a dangerous idea. Part of it might have been that he was so tired, too. The longer he goes without a statement, the worse his decision-making skills get.”

“Oh, brilliant. They’re so amazing most of the time,” Tim drawls. “God knows Jon _never_ makes poor life choices.”

Martin Prime actually laughs. “I mean, not like we can throw stones here.”

Tim laughs, too, and Martin manages a smile. Sasha wants to ask if Martin Prime considers _her_ one of Tim’s “poor life choices” or if he even knows they slept together, but just in case he doesn’t, she doesn’t want to drag that out into the open just now. Again, she’s fond of unearthing others’ secrets, but very close-mouthed about her own; it’s probably unfair, but there you are. Lest Tim bring it up, she starts looking for the next thread to pull on.

“That was Jon, right?” she asks at last. “In the…last gallery you were talking about. Those pictures. They were all of Jon?”

That fast, Martin Prime’s smile disappears. “Yeah. Most of them haven’t happened…obviously. And one of them for sure _won’t_ now.”

“The third one,” Sasha guesses. “That was—when Jane Prentiss attacked you all?”

Martin Prime nods. “It was the middle of the day. Jon’s the one that accidentally went through the wall—there was a spider he was trying to take out—”

“The Web toying with him?” Martin asks. He sounds a little calmer than before, but still shaken.

“Honestly, I’ve never been altogether sure about that. It might’ve actually just been a spider, but…the balance of probability is on it being the Web, yes. Anyway, Jon accidentally broke the wall, the worms got in—our Sasha and I ended up having to drag him into that storage room, but he’d already been bitten a few times, he couldn’t walk. Our Tim was at lunch at the time, he came back and—Sasha went out to save him, they got separated, and Tim wound up in the walls. He came through the wall in that storage room and convinced Jon and me to come out with him. We got separated in the tunnels, just like you all did, but Tim and Jon found the trap door and I, well, I found Gertrude. Eventually. But yeah, when Jon and Tim came out in the Archives, Jane Prentiss was there and she attacked them. They were pretty bad off before…Elias finally set off the CO2 system.”

Tim looks down at his hands—or more accurately, Sasha realizes, at one of his hands, since his other arm is still draped around Martin’s shoulders. She wonders if it’s to comfort Martin or to reassure himself. “Are we lucky, then?”

“Yes,” Martin mutters. “Extremely.”

“You’re lucky, too,” Martin Prime says. “Trust me. It wasn’t…Jon’s right, just because I didn’t come away with physical scars doesn’t mean I got off unhurt. And that was when things started going bad for us all.”

“So how do we stop the rest?” Sasha asks. “Are you all going to tell us what happened so we can avoid it?”

“Yes, I think so, but I’d really like to only have to go over it once?” Martin Prime glances in the direction of the door again. “And most of them I wasn’t there for. He’s told me about them, but…I wasn’t there.”

“But what _were_ they?” Sasha persists. “Just how he got hurt? How he got the scars?”

Martin Prime takes a deep breath and curls his hands into tight fists. “Broadly, yes, they’re how he was scarred. They’re…they were the encounters with the Fears that marked him.”

Sasha tilts her head to one side. “Like what Michael said about you—that you’d been marked?”

Martin Prime nods. “To be marked by a Fear is to _feel_ it, all the way through to your soul. Sometimes it’s physical, sometimes not. Mine aren’t…at least, not really.” He runs a hand through his hair, seemingly without noticing. It’s the first time Sasha realizes how much grey is streaked through his curls.

Martin swallows audibly. “How…how many fears have marked you?”

“Four, I think. Three for sure. I’m not altogether sure about whether or not the Stranger actually marked me or not.” Martin Prime tilts his head to one side. “You’ve only been marked by two, though, and…I never got the mark of the Corruption. My others were the Lonely and the Spiral, and of course the Beholding.”

“What about us?” Sasha asks. “In your timeline, I mean. How many were we marked by?”

Martin Prime hesitates. “Tim…I think he was four as well. The Beholding, obviously, we were all marked by that one as soon as we set foot in the Archives. At least I—I _think_ that’s how that worked. Or at least as soon as we put our voices on those tapes. Then the Corruption—Jane Prentiss’ attack—and he was with me when I got tricked into entering the Spiral’s domain, so it marked him too. And I’m pretty sure he was marked by the Stranger. I can’t say when, but I’m fairly sure he had been.”

Sasha waits, then prompts, “And me?”

Martin Prime takes a deep breath. “I honestly don’t know, Sasha. If I had to guess, I’d say two. Three at most, but I don’t know if your encounter with Michael really counts as a mark. Honestly, I wouldn’t have known the Corruption had actually marked you if you hadn’t mentioned that you could hear the worms singing.”

Sasha huffs. “I’m not sure what surprises me more—that I didn’t get more marks, or that _you_ didn’t.”

“I spent more time at the Institute than I did actually tracking things down,” Martin Prime replies. “ _Someone_ had to keep the Archives running properly, and, well, that fell on me. Our Tim was…he had a project of his own he was focusing on.”

“And me?” Sasha asks again.

Martin Prime looks in her direction for a long moment. His face is tight with pain. “You’re really going to make me say it,” he says flatly.

“Sash—” Tim begins.

“Yes,” Sasha says over whatever it is Tim’s going to protest. “Whatever reason I avoided all that…don’t I deserve to know?”

“You _died,_ Sasha,” Martin Prime says sharply. “You didn’t get marked by more entities because you _died._ You were torn to pieces by a—a _thing_ that took your place, replaced you in our memories so that we didn’t even know you were gone. We spent almost a year believing that it was you, and finding out that it wasn’t nearly destroyed all _three_ of us. Worse was finding out that Elias knew all along and didn’t _tell_ us because he wanted to see what it would do to Jon, and damn the effect on Tim or me.”

Okay. Sasha _really_ should have known that. She heard him describe the painting, after all, she even thought about not wearing her favorite shirt again because of it. She _knew_ she was dead, and Tim too; it’s obviously why they didn’t come back with Martin Prime and Jon Prime. But something in her wanted to hear Martin Prime say it out loud, and she’s not sure she likes what that says about her. She bites down hard on her tongue to keep from asking about Tim’s death. That’s not hers to ask, and she’s almost sure its going to be something the Jons need to be there for too.

After a moment of awkward silence, Tim gets up from the sofa. “I’m getting us all tea,” he says, his voice unusually subdued. “I think we’re going to need it.”

“Do you…need a hand?” Martin pushes himself to a standing position.

Tim looks like he’s going to refuse, then nods. “Sure, c’mon.”

Sasha watches them go. Martin is walking well enough, if a little stiffly, but Tim still hovers just behind him, not touching but there to catch him if he falls. It’s almost funny how flustered Martin gets when Tim looks after him, too. For a moment, Sasha is tempted to ask Martin Prime about that—if it’s Tim he has the crush on—but that feels a little bit like a betrayal of Martin, to take away his choice to tell her. And she’s still stinging a bit from the way Martin Prime flung the answer to her last question at her.

After a moment of silence, Martin Prime sighs heavily. “I’m sorry for saying it like that.”

“I shouldn’t have pushed,” Sasha replies. “Not like I didn’t know the answer. I—I don’t know why I had to make you say it when I _knew_ I’d died during your attack on the Institute.”

“I’m beginning to see why Gertrude Robinson expected you’d be appointed Archivist after her. You’re…a lot like she was. That’s not necessarily an insult, mind, but that’s not necessarily a compliment either.”

From what Sasha remembers of Gertrude Robinson—which isn’t much—she can understand that. They sit in silence for a while, listening to the clattering of mugs from the kitchen, before she finally says, “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, but I reserve the right not to answer.”

“What’s it like? Being blind, I mean.”

Martin Prime tilts his head to one side. “Are you asking me in clinical terms or in more general ‘how does it feel’ terms?”

“Both?”

Martin Prime smiles, briefly. “Fair enough.” He pauses for a moment, as if considering his options. “In the strictly literal sense…it’s like being in a room with really thick blackout curtains over the window. Sometimes there are…textures, maybe, to the darkness? Only if there’s a really bright light. For the most part, though, it’s just…darkness.” He takes off his glasses and holds them out to Sasha. “Here, take a look.”

Curious, Sasha does. She holds Martin Prime’s glasses up to the light, then removes her own and slides on Martin Prime’s. The strength of the prescription knocks her backwards against the sofa and makes her head swim. She takes them off, blinking, and puts them back in Martin Prime’s outstretched hand. “In other words, you were basically blind _before_ all this.”

“It’s just that the glasses don’t help anymore,” Martin Prime confirms. He settles them back on his face anyway, which Sasha understands. They’ve got to be a comfort. “Not being able to see…I can work with that. It’s just the added layer of there not even being blurry shapes in front of me, and, well, Mum was a light sleeper, so I kind of got used to moving carefully and without turning on any lights when I was growing up. Moving around I can do, although I’m sure you noticed me running into things a lot over the last couple weeks because I don’t know there’s a table or a stack of books between me and where I’m trying to get. But it’s…it’s disconcerting to not know if someone’s in the room, or be able to see what they’re doing when there’s a silence. I can’t read faces or see hand gestures. I can still tell when someone is looking at me, but I can’t tell _who,_ or even what direction it’s coming from. And there’s—there’s so much I took for granted that I won’t ever see again. Tim’s smile, Jon’s eyes, the sunlight sparkling on the Thames, the moon rising over the city.” He’s silent for a moment. “I didn’t even remember what you looked like. The—the Not-Sasha? It looked different, it sounded different. It _had_ to, because whenever it takes someone’s place, there’s always one or two people who—who remember the person as they were before, only no one believes them.”

“Which is how it feeds its patron’s fear,” Sasha guesses. “The Stranger?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Martin Prime nods. “I recognized your voice when I got back, only because we—we had a few recordings you were in from before. Your statement, your teasing Jon about the pronunciation of ‘calliope’, the recording Tim did on Jon’s birthday…a couple more you were on. But even having seen that—painting or whatever, I still couldn’t put a face to the voice. I only knew what you looked like in shadow and the most terrified you’d ever been in your life. I knew the Not-Sasha wasn’t what you looked like, but…I had to get Jon to describe you last night.”

Sasha glances in the direction of the kitchen, to make sure Tim and Martin aren’t coming back, but she hasn’t heard the kettle yet. “What did—it look like? The Not-Me? What did it make you think I looked like?”

“She—it—was…well, for starters, it was short. Petite, I think, is the right word. At least a head shorter than Jon and scrawny on top of it. Blonde hair in a shag cut, green eyes. No glasses.” Martin Prime pauses. “Only drank green tea.”

Sasha, who admittedly has a serious caffeine addiction, pulls a face. “How’d she drink it?”

“With cream,” Martin Prime answers. He takes a deep breath. “Don’t tell Jon, but…actually, there was a little part of me that was kind of relieved when we found out it wasn’t really, well, you. The first day we were back in the Archives after the attack, it was just the two of us, and…I made a cup of tea for both of us, we were both stressed out, so I thought it would help. I thought I made it like I always did, but…when I gave it to her, she took a sip, all but winced, and asked me if I’d made it for Jon or Tim. That’s when she ‘reminded’ me that she only drank green tea with cream. It—it threw me. Badly. I spent the next _three months_ second-guessing myself at every turn, about the stupidest things, because if I could forget something like how one of my friends like their _tea,_ what else was I forgetting? What else was I doing wrong?” He shakes his head. “Honestly, it was hard to shake that even _after_ we knew it wasn’t our Sasha, but at least I could convince myself that there was no good reason for me to know how it would like tea. Even though, supposedly, it replaced all our memories of her—you—with the ones it wanted us to have.”

Sasha hears the unspoken question and considers leaving it, or forcing him to actually say it aloud, but honestly, she’s put him through enough already this morning. “I can’t _stand_ green tea. I’m more one for coffee, actually, but when I do drink tea, it’s black with lots of sugar. Tim suggested once that you just heat up a cup of syrup and call it a day.”

Martin Prime’s face lights up at that. “I _did_ remember it right then! Christ, thank you. You have no idea…it’s been eating away at me for ages. I know it’s ridiculous in the grand scheme of things, but…”

But a big part of Martin’s identity is wrapped up in his ability to care for others, and naturally thinking he got it wrong would set him atilt. “Why leave you that, though?” Sasha asks curiously. “If you couldn’t remember anything else about—me—why remember just how I like my tea?”

“Well…I mean, I worked with you every day, if I’d remembered all about you, I’d have gone to Jon straightaway, or—probably not to Elias, but maybe. I didn’t…know I shouldn’t trust him then. If I’d laid down Amy Patel’s statement in front of Jon and pointed out the parallels, there’s a chance he’d have believed me, which would’ve ruined everything for it. So the one person it chose to remember you as you really were was someone who didn’t see you every day, or at least didn’t work with you closely enough to be suspicious. And—” Martin Prime swallows. “Part of the Stranger is that fear that you—you don’t know someone as well as you ought to. So what better way to make _me_ afraid than to make me doubt such a fundamental part of our interaction? I-I mean, it wasn’t _human._ It might not have liked tea at all. Maybe it just picked something at random that was so different from what you liked that it would throw me off-balance.”

Suddenly, Sasha gets it. “ _That’s_ why you said you might have been marked by the Stranger! You don’t think that counts? If it made you that…paranoid and afraid?”

“Maybe? It was worse for Jon. It made him so paranoid he thought one of us was trying to kill him, and that didn’t count as _his_ mark, if we’re going by the paintings.”

“Oh, please.” Sasha waves a hand. “Jon’s probably paranoid because of finding Gertrude’s shot-up body in the tunnels. That’s not a supernatural death, that’s something provable and possibly human. Was I—or the Not-Me—his top suspect?”

“No?” Martin Prime’s forehead puckers in a frown. “Actually, you—it—was the one he suspected _least._ At least at first. That doesn’t mean he trusted you, mind, but he did at least think you the least likely suspect.”

“Then the Not-Me didn’t mark him because it wasn’t what made him paranoid,” Sasha says. “If he’d been in his right mind, he’d have suspected me _most_ of all because I put in for the Archivist position, so the logical conclusion would have been that I killed Gertrude Robinson in hopes of getting it and then might be out to kill _him_ so I could take the job from him. He was on edge because of what happened, and what I’m guessing was the general atmosphere of mistrust and tension in the Archives at the time probably made it worse—but it wasn’t the Not-Me’s doing. You, on the other hand, were directly targeted by it, so any paranoia you felt _was_ because of it. Hence the mark.”

Martin Prime blinks in her direction. “That…God, you’re right. I never thought of that before.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Do me a favor?”

“Don’t mention _that_ to Jon, either?”

“Don’t—yeah. He’s got by all this time by reassuring himself that he wouldn’t have acted like that if the Not-Sasha hadn’t been there, but…” Martin Prime sighs and looks up at her. “I _will_ tell him. It’s not fair not to. But just…let me do it?”

“Of course,” Sasha promises. “Despite how I’ve been acting tonight, I _can_ keep my mouth shut.”

“I know. You knew I’d lied on my CV and never said anything.”

The kettle whistles from the kitchen, making Martin Prime flinch slightly. Sasha looks briefly over her shoulder. “They’ll be out in a few minutes.”

Martin Prime hums in acknowledgment. “Anything else you want to ask me while it’s just the two of us?”

Sasha can’t help but laugh. “Are you sure you don’t remember me?”

“Hey, I didn’t say the Not-Sasha was _completely_ different from you, necessarily. It just looked and sounded different.”

“Fair point.” Sasha considers. She looks in the direction of the kitchen again and thinks of the paintings Martin Prime described. She looks back at Martin Prime and says softly, “Did we suffer? Either of us?”

Martin Prime swallows hard. “You, yes. The—the Not-Sasha bragged about how much it hurt you. Tim…I don’t know. The actual moment of his death might have been quick, but he was definitely suffering beforehand. Maybe not physically, but still, he was hurting and neither Jon nor I could do anything to fix it. Believe me, I tried.”

Sasha bites her lip and nods before remembering he can’t see it. “If you couldn’t fix it…I don’t think it was something that could be fixed.”

Martin Prime smiles. “Thanks, Sasha.”

A moment later, Tim pokes his head in the living room and announces, “Here we come. Tea’s up.”

He and Martin come into the room, Martin concentrating hard on holding onto a mug with each hand and Tim carrying two in each hand like it’s no big deal. He sets them down on the coffee table, then picks one up and hands it to Sasha with an overdramatic flourish. “Your hummingbird food, milady.”

“Why, thank you, kind sir,” Sasha drawls, accepting the mug. It’s not the one she had her coffee in earlier, thank God, but she does wonder just how many mugs Tim has.

Martin sets down one of his mugs, then sits on the sofa with the other carefully cradled in his bandaged hands. Tim picks up the other mug and presents it to Martin Prime. “And here, this one’s yours. We picked a mug with a sculpted handle, so you should be able to tell it apart from the others if you set it down.”

“Oh, thank you.” Martin Prime reaches out hesitantly. Tim meets him halfway, settling the cup on his palm and turning it slightly so that it brushes his fingers and he’s able to wrap them around the handle. “As long as you’re not making me drink out of a horse’s ass.”

It’s probably a combination of the fact that it’s a joke at just the right time and the unexpectedness of Martin Prime using a profanity, even a mild and correctly-applied one, but the heavy mood shatters like spun sugar. Sasha and Martin both burst into giggles at Tim’s exaggerated expression of shock as his eyes go back and forth from Martin Prime to the white mug with a sculpted face and painted horn on one side and a sweeping, rainbow-colored tail for a handle on the other.


	17. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has a small panic attack. Jon Prime attempts to talk him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOO BOY THAT WAS AN EPISODE, HUH?
> 
> Okay, with this chapter + today's episode, we have _officially_ gone off the rails. Up to this point, I haven't bothered pointing out that this fic isn't exactly canon compliant (because, well, duh), but I've also been vague enough about everything post-160 referenced in the fic so far that I could plausibly claim it complies up to the point where JMart Prime go back in time. But this chapter explicitly mentions something that I had been plotting to have happened since I started writing this fic (I also wrote this chapter a couple weeks ago, so there's that), and it is officially canon-divergent.
> 
> So, for anyone who might be reading this fic for the first time, say, after the show has ended: **This fic can be alleged to be compliant with canon up through about the last two minutes of MAG192.** After that, we veer off into our own territory.

Jon knows he should probably feel bad about this, but he’s too shaken to feel anything else. Part of him feels guilty for bolting and leaving the others behind. God knows they must be upset by what they just heard too. It isn’t just his fate Martin Prime laid out in a series of framed pictures.

But he needs space, he needs air. He needs a chance to think about what he heard before he does or says something utterly stupid, even for him. He needs to regulate his breathing and he needs something to soothe his nerves.

He taps a cigarette out of the pack he keeps in his glove compartment and puts the rest in his pocket, then lights it up and leans against the corner of the garage. The first shaking drag nearly makes him choke, as always, but he holds it for a moment before slowly expelling it in a puff of air.

“Those things will kill you, you know,” a too-familiar voice says from behind him.

Jon doesn’t look up. “Obviously not, if you’re still here.”

Jon Prime comes over and leans against the wall next to Jon, arms folded across his chest. He doesn’t say anything, merely stands there and watches the smoke curl up in paisley spirals.

“Want one?” Jon finally asks, more as a way to break the silence than anything.

Jon Prime shakes his head. “No, I quit ages ago.”

“So did I,” Jon says dryly.

“Yes, but I stopped even keeping a pack on hand ‘just in case’ or ‘for emergencies’. Martin doesn’t like it. Never said anything, but…with everything else trying to kill me, the last thing I wanted was him worrying that I’d manage to do it to myself. I haven’t touched a cigarette since…before we lost Tim.”

Jon glances at his counterpart out of the corner of his eye. He sounds…haunted, for lack of a better term. Not that Jon can blame him. Bad enough to have to listen to all that as it was, but Jon Prime had to _live_ through it, and then have it served up like an art gallery. And to hear it come out of Martin Prime’s mouth…

He thinks about that, thinks about the sinking panic in his stomach when he thought about _his—_ their—Martin having to go through half of what Martin Prime must have endured, thinks about the way the Primes clung to each other when they were first reunited and the way they’ve maintained some degree of physical contact almost constantly since. It all combines to make him ask, “When did you figure out what he meant to you?”

“Almost too late,” Jon Prime murmurs. He gives Jon the same sideways glance Jon just gave him. “It sort of…crept up on me gradually? I wish I could tell you that it came to me in a grand realization, some big, theatrical, dramatic moment, but…no, it was—” He pauses and lets out a soft sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “It was really such a small, _stupid_ thing, but…no. The moment I realized…”

He returns to staring across the backyard, but Jon isn’t sure that’s what he’s actually looking at. “I was…trying to retrace Gertrude’s footsteps. Trying to piece together what she’d learned, what she’d been working on. At one point, she was at the Pu Songling Research Center in Beijing—it’s something of a sister organization to the Institute—and went from there to Chicago. I had a bit of time before the next flight out, so I thought—I was _dying_ for a cup of tea. Hadn’t had a decent one in ages. I honestly couldn’t remember the last time I’d been able to finish one. And here I was in the middle of one of _the_ most well-known places for tea in the world. I decided to go to a nice teahouse and get the full experience. So I did.” He snorts softly and shakes his head. “I couldn’t finish it.”

Jon makes an interrogative noise. He isn’t really sure what to say to that, or how it connects to anything they’ve been talking about, but he’s willing to wait it out.

“Silly, isn’t it?” Jon Prime muses. “I—I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with it. It wasn’t the quality of the tea, that was perfect. It was made exactly the way I like it. Hell, I even _watched_ them make it, so it wasn’t fear of them accidentally poisoning it or whatever—so what could it be?” He sighs heavily. “And that’s when it hit me. I watched the woman make it. The _woman._ I realized, sitting in the middle of a crowded shop in one of the most populated cities in the world, that I could come up with as many excuses as I wanted, but the simple truth was that I hadn’t finished a cup of tea in two years that Martin hadn’t made for me.” He looks back at Jon, and his eyes are tight with self-reproach. “That was the moment I knew. And then, like a coward, I didn’t say anything for more than a year.”

Jon wants to say something, _anything,_ but before he can, Jon Prime looks away from him again. “Oh, I told myself there were good reasons. I-I was away, I wasn’t going to say something like that over the _phone,_ I had to wait until I saw him in person again. And then when I did get back to the Institute, we were in the middle of—we had _work_ to do to save the world, we didn’t have a lot of down time, we had to—to plan, to prepare. A-and then, the, the night before we left for our mission…I told myself that wasn’t the time. I was going and Martin was staying behind—he had a plan of his own to carry out, and _someone_ had to stay back, just in case the rest of us didn’t make it, and…I didn’t say anything, but I needed it to be him. I needed to know he was safe, even if the rest of us weren’t. But I convinced myself it wouldn’t be _fair_ to burden him with that, to tell him how I felt and then just _leave_ , because if God forbid I _didn’t_ come back I didn’t want him to live the rest of his life knowing we never had the chance to—to explore what that meant.”

“And then?” Jon ventures.

Jon Prime closes his eyes. “The ninth picture.”

“You—we—” Damn, it’s hard to know how to say it. “A coma?”

“Six months. Nothing functioning except my brain. I—I had to make my choice. I chose to come back. But when I did…everything was different. Martin had—he’d taken another job in the Institute, to protect everyone in the Archives. To protect _me._ He had…he was working on a plan of his own, but…” Jon Prime sighs heavily. “I don’t know…”

“It’s not likely to happen now, is it?” Jon asks. “Whatever this is? You’re— _we’re_ going to stop all this from happening, so what’s the harm in telling me?”

Jon Prime swallows. “Because it still hurts to think about. But…all right. Martin had managed to gather enough evidence to have Elias arrested—this was before we knew…the full extent of things, so we thought he was just a moderately clairvoyant, malicious ass—but Elias had anticipated…something of that nature, and laid plans ahead of time. He’d chosen Peter Lukas as a temporary successor. Actually there was a bet involved, but…I _really_ don’t want to discuss that, and we didn’t find out until later anyway. But Peter Lukas was running the Institute. There were…attacks, and Martin finally made a deal with Lukas that he’d work directly for him if he would protect the others left behind in the Archives. Most of what he did was to protect us—to protect _me,_ because he thought if he kept Lukas’ attention on him, it would keep the rest of us safe. And for the most part, he wasn’t wrong.”

“Lukas…as in, the Institute donors?” Jon thinks back to the statement of the young woman he’d rather brusquely dismissed. “The woman who—the funeral—wait a minute.” He compares the statement to the list of entities and ventures, “The Lonely?”

“It almost got him.” Jon Prime exhales shakily. “The Lukas family is…very wrapped up in the Lonely. Oddly, for such a large family, but…yes. He worked on Martin for _months,_ and I—for a moment, I thought he was going to go over. But in the end, he didn’t. He stood up to him and chose not to. But as part of what he was doing to Martin—and what Martin was doing to protect me—we didn’t interact. _Couldn’t._ ” He gives a small, humorless laugh. “The loneliness of distance.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s…the Keeper’s domain, actually. A mixture of the Lonely and the Spiral. That peculiar feeling when you’re separated from someone you love, and it—it _should_ be so simple to cross that barrier, but you can’t. Maybe you’re physically separated, maybe an emotional gulf…maybe by necessity. But it’s coupled with the—the fear that if you _do_ try to reach out…”

“They won’t reach back,” Jon says softly.

Jon Prime nods. “And it _hurts._ I-I mean, both of us _wanted_ to close that gap, but…we were afraid to. Me because I was afraid I’d well and truly botched it and he didn’t want me to, him because it was the only way he could think of to keep me safe. Relatively, anyway.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “We got lucky. We got that second chance.”

“So how _do_ you feel about him?” Jon asks. It’s probably a stupidly obvious question, but honestly, his own emotions are still so mixed up that he genuinely doesn’t know how _he_ feels, and knowing how Jon Prime feels…

Jon Prime unfolds his arms, straightens up, and looks Jon square in the face. “I love him,” he says, quietly but firmly. “He’s my anchor, my compass, the one thing keeping me human. He is the one person I trusted when I was at my lowest and the one person I wanted there when I was at my highest. He was the first one I told when I found out how to quit the Institute and the one who found a way to bring me out of the Buried when my own stupidity nearly trapped me there. He’s the reason I’ve made it this far and the only reason I have to continue. He is the most important thing in my life and I will do whatever it takes to keep him there.” He pauses. “And before you ask, yes, he does know all this. Now.”

That was, in fact, Jon’s next question. “And he…?”

“He feels the same.”

For just a moment, Jon feels dizzy. Could Martin…? But he’s not even sure if love is what _he_ feels for his— _their_ —Martin, not yet anyway. Could it _be_ love? Maybe. Someday. But all hearing about his future self’s feelings has done is make him _more_ confused. Still, he keeps pushing. “You haven’t…said anything, o-or _done_ anything, since…” Even the way they clung to each other when they first were reunited could be construed as two friends, two people who’ve lost everything else, finding something familiar once again.

“And believe me, it’s killing us both.” Jon Prime reaches up like he wants to run his hands through his hair, then checks, evidently remembering the braid, and rubs his face instead. “I didn’t realize how comfortable I’ve become with being able to show that affection—to take comfort from him—until we were here and I couldn’t. God, when he was done giving his statement, I—I wanted to—” He gives a ragged sigh. “And don’t think for a moment I couldn’t tell how much effort it took to restrain himself to what little he did when I overdid things. We’re just…we got accustomed to being allowed to do that, I suppose. It never occurred to either one of us we’d be somewhere we couldn’t.”

“Well, why can’t you?”

“I don’t know if you realize just how bad Martin’s self-esteem is at times,” Jon Prime says quietly. “God knows we haven’t done him any favors. We worried that if you saw us together, then got together yourselves, your Martin would always harbor that little bit of suspicion that you’re only with him because you think you have to be.”

Jon swallows, but he cant really refute that assessment of Martin, mostly because he doesn’t know him as well as he’d like. It still rings true. “I—you know I wouldn’t—”

“I know. And _my_ Martin knows that, too. He’s…as horrible as the next two years were for us, they definitely helped him forge his sense of self-worth. But yours still thinks you hate him.”

“I don’t—I never _hated_ him. I—”

“Was projecting, yes. He called me on that and I copped to it. But it doesn’t change the fact that that’s what he thinks _now._ My Martin and I don’t want to risk damaging what you two could have by making either of you think it’s forced.” Jon Prime returns to lounging against the side of the building.

They fall into another long silence, Jon Prime sliding his hands into his pockets and watching the sky cloud over and Jon returning to smoking. There’s always a small amount of guilt when he sneaks a cigarette—which he really does far too often to claim he’s actually quit—but it’s worse than usual today. Or maybe it’s just that what he’s just sat through is too intense to be soothed with nicotine and menthol. He watches the smoke curl on the wind and thinks about the paintings.

Finally, he asks, “They all happened, then?”

“Yes.” Jon Prime’s voice is barely audible. “All of them. Including, thank God, the last one.” He pauses, then adds, “I’m—I know it’s selfish to say it, but if he _had_ to be blinded, I’m glad that’s the last thing he saw.”

Jon understands that. “Anything would be better than the gallery of horrors. And…the last painting, the one he didn’t turn around to see. Do you…?”

“It was probably the moment I ended the world.”

“ _You_ ended—” Jon’s cigarette slips from his fingers. Stupidly, he grabs at it as it falls and manages to sear his hand. He curses softly and shakes out his hand, inspecting the cigarette. Somehow, it’s still lit. Wonders will never cease.

“Graceful,” Jon Prime says dryly. He starts to fiddle with the cuffs of his sweater, then tucks his hands firmly into his armpits, evidently to stop himself. “And yes. It wasn’t… _exactly_ my fault, I suppose, but I was more or less the catalyst, at least.” He seems to debate with himself for a moment, then sighs. “We’ll explain a bit more when we’re back with everyone else—I don’t want to have to relive this more than once—but, broadly, the entities all have rituals, designed to bring them fully into the world and recreate it in their image, so to speak. The ritual for the Eye is called the Watcher’s Crown, and the Archivist is the keystone. Jonah spent three years preparing me, and then—well, he disguised the incantation to finish the ritual as a statement, and I didn’t discover it until I’d already started reading it.”

“You didn’t stop?”

“I—I _tried._ God knows I tried. But I physically couldn’t. Even from the beginning, I found it hard to stop recording a statement once it was begun, unless I was interrupted. I convinced myself for far too long that it was just work ethic or some such nonsense.” Jon Prime sounds bitterly amused. “I don’t know that I could have stopped myself without intervention. If—if I hadn’t been alone, if I’d asked Martin to stay in the room…he might have been able to snatch it away from me before I got to the second page. I don’t know. I _can’t_ Know hypotheticals or the future or anything like that, but I-I’m terribly afraid that if he’d tried to interfere, especially once I got to the actual ritual, that I might have hurt him.” He closes his eyes tightly. “I-I wouldn’t have survived that.”

Jon presses his lips together for a moment, then takes another drag on the cigarette. He tries not to think about the possibility of hurting _any_ of his assistants, let alone Martin. Even now, the very idea makes him flinch away in horror. How much worse would it be if he’d sorted through the tangle of emotions inside him?

“You didn’t—Tim and Sasha. That wasn’t you, right?” he asks, and could swallow his tongue. He almost _does_ swallow the cigarette and holds it well away from himself to keep from doing something even stupider. “I-I mean—”

“It’s all right. It’s a valid question,” Jon Prime says quietly. He opens his eyes. Somehow, Jon isn’t surprised to see that they’re wet with unshed tears. “No, I never laid a hand on either of them. Sasha was—she was killed by the thing from Amy Patel’s statement, the one that was not her friend Graham. Tim died trying to stop one of the rituals. He—I didn’t want him to go. I definitely didn’t want him to do what he did, but…God, he was so angry. I-I think he needed to do it, but it _hurt_ when I woke up and found out he was gone.”

Jon notes that whatever killed Tim—likely an explosion, since Martin Prime mentioned a detonator—also put Jon Prime in his coma, but he decides not to bring that up. Not now. He doesn’t want to think about losing any of his assistants. He _can’t._ “Please tell me you’re going to help me keep that from happening.”

“That’s our goal,” Jon Prime promises. “Well, our secondary goal at least. Obviously our main goal is to stop—”

“The world from ending. I know. Your Martin told us that.”

Jon Prime smiles, just a little bit. It takes Jon a second to realize that it’s the words _your Martin_ that made him soften like that—that even though Jon meant it to distinguish Martin Prime from the Martin who could have died last night if the CO2 system had been a hair slower to trigger, a thought that’s going to haunt him for a while, he heard it as a possessive statement. _Your Martin_ in the same sense as _your partner, your reason, your love._ There’s another uncomfortable flutter in Jon’s chest that he tries his hardest to ignore.

“But our other goal is to protect everyone we care about,” Jon Prime continues. “I—I _am_ sorry that your Martin got hurt so badly. I am. I know what he’s going through, physically at least. We really were hoping to avoid any of you having to go through that. But if we can at least stop him—stop all of you—from going through the hell we went through…we’ll run whatever risk we have to.”

“Short of letting…Elias win,” Jon says. It seems safer to call him that for now.

Jon Prime hesitates, which surprises Jon. “I…I’d like to say yes. That stopping Jonah is more important than keeping you all from getting hurt. And certainly you’ll all suffer a great deal if he does win, but…God, I don’t know. If the cost is anyone’s life…I don’t know that I can pay it. Not again.” He takes a deep breath. “We have a good chance, though. Jonah doesn’t know we’re here, and as long as we can keep him ignorant, we should be able to catch him off-guard. And I know what to prepare for better now.”

“Wait, you’re following through the same plan you had post-apocalypse?”

“More or less.”

“Even though it _obviously_ didn’t work?” Jon wonders what happens to him that he would consider trying something he knows is doomed to failure.

“It would have worked,” Jon Prime says. “I didn’t know for sure before we tried—like I said, I can’t Know the future—but what Jonah did made it clear that what we were going to do would have worked, and that he found the only method possible of stopping it.”

Jon _knows_ he shouldn’t ask, but he can’t help himself. He wonders if it’s the power of the Eye or just his own natural curiosity, or maybe both. “What—what did he do?”

“He hurt Martin.” Jon Prime’s voice is quiet but raw. “Badly. I—I knew I could save him, but I also knew that going to Martin first would give Jonah enough time to get away, and we’d never get another chance to catch him unaware. And I knew that if I took Jonah down, even in the relatively short amount of time it would take to do that…Martin would be beyond help by the time I was done. I only had seconds to decide.” He looks up, and the pain in his eyes is evident. “Not a thing in me said to do other than what I did.”

The memory of Martin being wheeled out of the Archives on a stretcher hits Jon almost like a physical force. The panic, the desperate need to get to him, the sense of guilt, return as if he’s feeling them fresh. And that was with trained medical professionals on the scene. What Jon Prime is describing is infinitely worse. Jon Prime had to _watch_ Martin Prime hurt, by someone he once at least marginally trusted, and know that he was the only one who could save him…but at the cost of the rest of the world.

And, honestly, Jon can’t condemn him. He doesn’t know what he’d do if faced with that situation himself. Truthfully, there’s a part of him that’s afraid he would hesitate for too long and lose _both_ opportunities. He knows, with utter certainty, that he’d never forgive himself if he did. At least Jon Prime made a decision. At least he saved the man he loved.

“I—I think you did the right thing,” he manages.

Jon Prime huffs a soft laugh and folds his arms over his chest again, banging his head lightly back against the wall of the garage. “Martin didn’t think so. At first, anyway. He fussed at me for not stopping Jonah when I could, but…when I told him how little time he had, and pointed out I wasn’t even sure I’d get anything out of taking down Jonah but revenge, he let it go. Still don’t think he agrees it was the _right_ choice, but he does at least understand it was the only choice I could have made.”

Jon doesn’t answer. He’s thinking about what that must feel like—to be the only ones left standing at the end of the world, to make a pact together to turn it back, to go through what must have been literal hell together, to _see_ your happy ending on the horizon, and then to nearly have everything destroyed in an instant. If the chasm that opened up before _him_ at the idea of losing Martin had been deep and vast, how unfathomable must it have been to Jon Prime? Especially knowing how close he must have come to losing Martin before that?

“What would he have done?” he finally asks. “If your positions had been reversed. If you’d been the one hurt. Would Martin have saved you and let…” He trails off. He _still_ can’t bring himself to call his boss _Jonah._ That’s honestly the only thing he’s having trouble believing. That Elias Bouchard is in the service of an eldritch fear god, that he might want to end the world as long as he can be in charge of it, that he’s using Jon as a cat’s-paw to do so? Certainly. But that he might actually be Jonah Magnus, or at least possessed by him? No, Jon can’t quite buy that one yet.

Jon Prime looks unhappy. “I don’t know. Our plan relied—relies—on an ability Martin simply doesn’t have. So the likelihood of him being _able_ to do anything to Jonah…I don’t know if he would have tried or not. He might have. Martin’s got a lot more pent-up rage in him than you might expect, and most of it is directed at Jonah. He’s hurt us both over the years, repeatedly, and I know Martin wanted revenge. I did, too, but…the difference is that I knew how precious little time there was before the damage done to him was irreversible. Martin wouldn’t have known that. He—he might have thought he could at least get one good stab in and then save me. You’ll have to ask him, but honestly, I don’t think even _he_ knows.”

Actually, the thought that Martin—stammering, unassuming, inoffensive Martin—would attack a being that’s essentially a demigod with a knife to pay it back for hurting them is strangely comforting. The idea that Jon might have died as a result, less so. “So—why attack Martin and not you? What if you’d chosen differently?”

“I think he knew damn well I wouldn’t. And I think he knew there was a good possibility Martin _would,_ which also tells me it would have worked, too. That Martin _could_ have killed him. Then, too, there’s a chance that he _couldn’t_ have actually killed me. The Eye may have liked me better than it liked Jonah. Certainly it seemed keen to keep me alive and functioning.” Jon Prime pauses, then adds on a small sigh, “But mostly, I think he attacked Martin because when he started picking at my confidence, started me doubting myself— _again_ —Martin stood between us and refused to move.”

Jon coughs. “Wait, what?”

Jon Prime nods without looking at him. He folds his arms tightly over his chest, rolling the fabric of the sweater between his thumbs and forefingers. It’s a nervous tic Jon himself isn’t familiar with, and in a distant way, he wonders when it started. “It wasn’t—I won’t pretend it was like you might imagine in the movies. He was scared, I could _taste_ how scared he was, and I know he was trying not to cry. But he stood in front of me anyway. He looked Jonah square in the eye and told him to fuck off. Told him he wouldn’t let him hurt me anymore and—” He breaks off and closes his eyes, pressing his lips into a flat line for a moment. “He wouldn’t budge. He didn’t take his eyes off Jonah when he told me that he’d stand in front of me as long as I needed him to, as long as it took for me to remember who I was, and that it wasn’t what Jonah had tried to make me.”

Jon can’t fathom what kind of courage that must have taken. “And that…what, angered Jonah so much that he wanted to hurt Martin?”

“Oh, no, he didn’t sound angry at all,” Jon Prime says bitterly. “He was perfectly calm as he told me that I ‘might want to reconsider my course of action’ as ‘time can be a precious resource, after all’.”

“And then?”

“And then he shot Martin.” Jon Prime slowly turns his head to look Jon square in the eye. “Three times. In the chest.”

Jon freezes. Everything seems to still down to a molecular level—heart, lungs, even his brain. Nothing exists beyond the words Jon Prime has just spoken and what they imply. At first, it’s focusing on the thought that Elias Bouchard _shot_ Martin—that his boss, the man theoretically responsible for them and their well-being, leveled a gun at one of his assistants and fired it. Then the details catch up to him, and Jon somehow manages to forget how to breathe, despite the fact that he isn’t breathing to begin with. Not only did he shoot Martin, he shot him the same way Gertrude Robinson was shot, if Tim is to be believed. Spots begin forming at the edges of his vision.

He feels pressure on his shoulders and hears a voice that seems to crackle with static. “ **Breathe, Jon.** ”

Jon complies without realizing it. He inhales—exhales. Again. Again. The creeping darkness recedes, and Jon sees his counterpart standing before him, his eyes wet and anxious behind his glasses, matching his breathing to Jon’s. He has his hands on Jon’s shoulders—that’s the pressure he felt—and he’s shaking faintly.

“My God,” Jon whispers. “He—dear _God._ ”

Jon Prime nods, infinitesimally. “Yes. He was—making a point. As much as—” He breaks off and closes his eyes again, but Jon sees a tear trickle out of the corner of his eye.

Jon swallows hard. “He killed Gertrude Robinson.”

“Yes.” Jon Prime takes a deep breath and opens his eyes again, looking a bit calmer but still shaken. “That…was not how I wanted to tell you that. But yes.” He pauses, then adds, “If you want more on that, you’ll have to wait until we can talk to everyone. They probably deserve to know.”

Jon isn’t sure he _does_ want to know more about that. Or if there’s really that much more to be known. Still, he understands not wanting to talk about that more right now.

He reaches over and wipes the tear off of Jon Prime’s cheek. “He’s all right, though. I-I mean, you saved him. He’s alive. He’s…alive.”

“He’s alive, yes.” Jon Prime slowly releases Jon’s shoulders and takes a step back, giving them both a bit of space. “I—I was able to stabilize him. The Keeper appeared and offered us a relatively safe place to rest, and we were able to stay until Martin was well again, but…he’ll always have those scars, I think. They’re a bit worse than they would have been had he been given _real_ medical attention, but I-I did the best I could. And…at least he’s alive. At least I still have him.”

Jon exhales and leans back against the wall. In light of everything he’s just learned…he can’t imagine how difficult the last week has been for Jon Prime. Being separated from the last person you knew from your previous life is bad enough, but to be separated from the person you love…especially so soon after a near-death experience…and then to not have any way of contacting him, of knowing how he was…it must have been absolute hell.

After a moment, Jon Prime says with a small, humorless laugh, “You know, I came out here to make sure you were all right, and I think I successfully made things infinitely worse.”

Jon thinks about that for a moment, then says, somewhat surprised, “Actually, I think you may have helped.”

“Really,” Jon Prime says, sounding skeptical.

“I-I mean—it’s bad. It’s _very_ bad, what happened, and I—yes, all right, I definitely panicked a bit there. But…” Jon tries to figure out how to phrase it, then gives up and decides to just talk and see what comes out. “I didn’t even know why I came out here. Why I needed space. But talking to you, I—I think I figured it out. Listening to what you said…it wasn’t what you—we—went through that upset me. It wasn’t even hearing it spoken about. It was hearing _Martin—_ well, your Martin—talk about it. I was more upset that Martin Prime had to go through that than I was that you did. And…” He sighs. “I still don’t know exactly how _I_ feel, but…at least things make a little more sense now.” He looks over at Jon Prime. “I’m all right. Or as all right as I can be.”

“That’s…going to define the rest of your life, I’m afraid. ‘As all right as you can be.’” Jon Prime sighs. “Go ahead and finish that cigarette and we’ll go back inside.”

Jon Prime stares at the half-smoked cigarette in his hand for a long moment. He started smoking in university, more as a way of avoiding conversation than anything, and found it helped his anxiety. All his rather messy break-up with Georgie had done was cause him to switch brands, and all his grandmother’s nagging and disapproval had done was cause him to stop smoking indoors. He’d tried to quit after her funeral, but even though he rarely smoked more than one or two out of the packs he bought before he had to throw them out because they went stale, he never managed to actually _stop._ Truthfully, there were no external factors more powerful than the soothing nature of the nicotine.

But now…

Slowly, he raises his foot to his knee and grinds out the end of the cigarette on his heel. He pulls out the pack, tucks the cigarette into it, turns around, and drops the whole pack into the bin at the corner. Judging by the state of the bin, it’s almost trash day, so he hopefully won’t be tempted to dig around and rescue the pack later.

He turns back to see Jon Prime watching him with a genuine smile on his face. He doesn’t say anything, merely reaches over and gives Jon a hug. Jon is momentarily surprised, then relaxes into the hug and returns it. It’s a bit—there’s no other word for it— _weird_ to be hugging himself, but at the same time, he needs physical contact more than he lets on and he hasn’t really had all that much in the last few years. The stress doesn’t go away, but it does ease back, a hell of a lot better than the cigarette managed.

After a moment, they separate. Jon Prime claps him wordlessly on the shoulder, and they turn to head back inside. To face whatever is coming next.


	18. Tim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More answers are given and vague plans are made. Most of them Tim's.

They’ve only just managed to calm down when someone knocks on the door. Tim is at first a touch nervous—he’s usually at work by now, so it shouldn’t be anyone actively looking for him unless a neighbor has seen the car in the driveway and surmised he has a guest—but he relaxes and grins when he opens it and sees who’s actually there. “You know, it’s unlocked. You _can_ just come in.”

“We didn’t want to scare anyone,” Jon says softly.

“Failed step one. I couldn’t think who’d be knocking on my door at ten in the morning.” Tim steps back to let them in. “Then again, do monsters _usually_ knock on doors instead of just barging in?”

“Yes, actually,” Jon Prime says. “Or at least some of them do.”

Tim snorts and shuts the door behind them. He can smell just the faintest hint of cigarette smoke off of one of them, but doesn’t say anything, not even when Jon sheds his cardigan and hangs it on one of the hooks, looking a tad guilty. Instead, he turns back to the living room. “Come on in. Martin and I made tea. If you two have been having anything like the conversations we have, you probably need it.”

He leads them back to the living room and announces as he steps in, “It’s just Jon Squared. Seriously, the lot of you, you don’t have to knock unless it’s locked. _Mi casa es vuestra casa._ ”

Jon Prime goes straight to Martin Prime’s side and touches his shoulder gently; Martin Prime looks up in his direction with a slight half-smile. “Hey. You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Jon Prime assures him, his voice low and intimate. Tim’s heart turns over. “You?”

“We’re fine.” Martin Prime shifts slightly to the side, even though there’s no need. Jon Prime settles in next to him.

Jon hesitates before perching on the arm of the sofa rather than ask Martin to move over a little more, which Martin is clearly about to do. Tim decides not to mention it. Instead, he picks up the two mugs on the coffee table, identical save that one is blue-grey and the other is forest green, and hands one to Jon and the other to Jon Prime. “Here. They should be the same—they _are_ the same, right, Martin?” he adds, glancing at Martin.

“Yeah. Erm, I—I didn’t know if you—I assume you still drink it the same way, I just—” Martin gestures helplessly in Jon Prime’s direction. “I would have asked, but he was in here and—”

“It’s fine, Martin,” Jon Prime says, his eyes crinkling upwards at the corners. “How I like my tea hasn’t changed.”

Jon stares into the depths of the mug in his hands like it holds the secrets of the universe, or possibly like he’s wondering if there’s enough in it to drown himself in. Tim settles back onto the sofa and picks up his own mug. “Great. So now that we have something to build on…where do we go to next?”

Sasha drums her fingers on the arm of the sofa for a minute, and Tim just _knows_ she’s about to ask one of the deepest, darkest questions she can come up with. Thankfully, Martin seems to get that vibe too and jumps in before she can say anything. “Okay, so—so you were talking about being marked by the entities. W-what does that actually… _mean_ in the long term? I mean, is it—what does it do?”

“For the most part,” Jon Prime says slowly, “nothing, really. It—being marked by an entity simply means that anyone who worships or follows or—or is a part of that entity will be drawn to you. It makes you a bigger target to them.”

“You’ve already got that baseline of fear, you see,” Martin Prime adds. “And you felt it down to your bones, so it’s not a case of ‘I looked my fear in the eye and I’m no longer afraid of it’, usually, it’s more of ‘I looked my fear in the eye and now I know what there is to be scared of’, which makes it _worse._ So those…entities, if you run into them, will be more likely to try something on you.”

“Brilliant,” Tim mutters, eyeing the bandages on Martin’s hands and face. Jon reaches out, like he wants to put a protective hand on Martin’s arm, but stops himself.

Jon Prime sighs and looks up at Jon. “But unfortunately, as in so many other things, it does mean something worse for _you.”_

“Me?” Jon stiffens. “What would being marked do to me?”

Jon Prime presses his lips together for a moment. Martin Prime touches Jon Prime’s hand lightly. “Do you…want me to tell them?”

“No. No, it ought to come from me.” Jon Prime turns his hand over and squeezes Martin Prime’s gently. “Each of the…entities has a ritual. Something designed to…bring them fully into the world, allow them to take it over. End the world as we know it and create a new world entirely devoted to fear, fear that feeds directly into that entity. Jonah Magnus has dedicated two hundred years to perfecting that ritual and bringing it to fruition.”

“B-but—wait, wait.” Martin takes a deep breath. “If—if these things are like Smirke said—balance and all that, you can’t—how can you be afraid of something if you don’t know what the world’s like without it? If the—if the Buried takes over, how can you be afraid if you don’t know the sky’s still out there? How can you be afraid of the dark if light doesn’t exist? You can’t just create a world where nothing exists but _one_ fear, because then you—it’s just _normal._ Right?”

“Exactly. Which is why most of the entities’ rituals will…collapse on their own. Something Gertrude Robinson didn’t figure out until the end of her life—nor, for that matter, did Jonah Magnus—and something I’m afraid I—”

“ _We,_ ” Martin Prime interrupts emphatically.

“—learned too late,” Jon Prime continues. “However, there is…Jonah has a ritual that he thought _would_ work, that would bring all the entities into the world, with one at their head. And the keystone to that ritual is the Archivist.”

“ _No,_ ” Martin and Tim say in almost the exact same tone. No, they won’t let that happen, they _can’t._

“What _is_ the ritual, though?” Sasha asks. “What does it do?”

“It’s called the Watcher’s Crown. Broadly, it involves allowing the Archivist to collect marks from all the entities, in effect _becoming_ an Archive in and of themselves, and then…and then reciting an invocation to bring the fears forth into the world.” Jon Prime looks like he’s about to be sick. “In _our_ timeline, when Jane Prentiss attacked, it was the middle of the day. Elias was watching from the moment he knew she’d attacked, his hand on the override switch for the CO2 system because there was no actual fire. He wanted to see how I acquitted myself, what happened. If I could survive it, because if I couldn’t, I wouldn’t be any use to him. I did—barely—and mostly because of Martin and Tim. From that point on, Elias—Jonah—deliberately put me in the way of as many powers as he could, so I would get the marks. And because I didn’t know what he was doing until far too late, I couldn’t avoid it. I had very little choice except to trust what he said. Then, once I had all fourteen…”

“He tricked you into saying the invocation,” Jon says softly. He doesn’t seem overly surprised.

“He disguised it as a statement.” Martin Prime’s voice sounds the way it did when he imitated Elias in the Archives— _can_ it have only been yesterday? Tim feels like he’s aged a year since then. “Pretended it was something else, then _taunted_ him about it. Explained his entire plan before ending with the words to invoke the ritual.”

“And I couldn’t stop, once begun,” Jon Prime adds. “Not without being interrupted. I—I always preferred to do the statements alone, so Martin had gone out for a walk. He didn’t get back until…after it was done. I had to speak the entire statement aloud.”

“He made you monologue for him? The _bastard_ ,” Tim says. He really is genuinely horrified by the idea, but he can’t resist the urge to make at least a somewhat lighthearted quip.

Martin Prime snorts, but some of the tightness leaves his face. “Now that you mention it, I can’t actually vouch for his parentage.”

Jon Prime actually gives a soft but genuine chuckle. “At any rate, that’s what we’re hoping to prevent.”

“But you already have, right?” Tim says. “Jon didn’t get attacked by the worms, so he hasn’t been marked by the—the Corruption. That means the plan hasn’t worked, right?”

“Yet,” Martin points out. “I mean, there’s—there’s no saying Jane Prentiss is the only avatar of the Corruption, right?”

Martin Prime nods. “She was the main one. The other one we kept encountering in statements is—” He turns to Jon Prime. “He _is_ dead, right?”

“Yes, he’s been taken care of. But Martin is right, there are others,” Jon Prime tells them. “And there’s honestly no saying the Corruption had to be the first mark. Jonah is simply waiting to see how you acquit yourself when you _do_ encounter one of the entities. Attacks were fairly common when Gertrude was the Archivist.”

“And they were fairly common for us, too,” Martin Prime adds.

“So we’ve got to keep Jon from getting hurt by anything at all,” Tim says.

“Sure. That won’t be hard,” Sasha mumbles. Tim kicks her in the ankle and she glares at him.

“No, she’s right. We—we’re going to do our best, but honestly, I don’t think there’s any stopping you getting at least _one_ more before we can take Jonah down.” Jon Prime cocks his head at Jon. “And I don’t think it’s in your best interest that you _not,_ actually.”

Martin sputters, but Jon nods slowly. “You mean that if I don’t…he’ll get suspicious. Especially if—” He shakes his head. “I’m not putting you in that kind of danger. God. Never mind the danger from the other entities—what would _Elias_ do if he realized you three knew enough to potentially thwart his plans?” He looks up anxiously at Jon Prime. “Could he—never mind, I know the answer to that. Would he, though? Would he think he could get away with it?”

Jon Prime hesitates. “Probably. A-after all, most of us…don’t really have that many connections outside the Institute, I—” He breaks off and looks at Sasha in some little confusion.

Sasha, surprisingly, looks a little uncomfortable with the scrutiny. Tim raises an eyebrow and looks back and forth between her and Jon Prime, but she manages not to say anything and he doesn’t seem inclined to ask.

After a moment of silence, Martin Prime makes a soft _ah_ noise. “The Not-Sasha told us she—you—had a boyfriend named Tom.”

“Oh!” Is it Tim’s imagination, or does Sasha sound relieved? “No. No, I’m single.”

“I thought as much. I—I was always fairly certain that was just its cover for why it was going to Madame Tussauds every day.” Jon Prime studies Sasha a moment longer, then returns to the group at large. “Under most circumstances, I-I’d say it was unlikely he’d actually do it _himself._ He’s not fond of getting his hands dirty. More likely to manipulate someone else into doing it, but if he was desperate enough…”

It’s at that point that Tim realizes Jon—and Jon Prime—are implying that Elias might actually kill them if he thinks they’re standing between him and world domination. He resists the urge to gather Martin and Sasha close to him; Sasha wouldn’t appreciate it and Martin will just hurt. “Okay, but is there a way we can keep Jon from getting hurt _and_ keep Elias from being suspicious?”

“Not really.” To Tim’s surprise, it’s Jon who answers, not one of the Primes. “I—if he really can watch us whenever he wants to, he’s going to be watching me for a while, I think. I couldn’t figure out why he seemed so…disappointed in me when he was talking to me last night. Maybe he really did think I ran out of the Archives to save my own skin and left all of you down there, but from what you all have said so far, I-I think he’s more disappointed he didn’t get to see how I handled myself. I’d imagine he’s going to be even _more_ interested in my next potential encounter with an entity.”

Jon Prime smiles sadly. “You catch on quickly, Archivist.”

Martin Prime frowns briefly, but says nothing. Tim decides not to ask. “What _is_ the next one, anyway?”

“For me, it—well, the next one I _encountered_ would have been the Not-Sasha, which is the Stranger, but a-apparently it didn’t mark me,” Jon Prime says. “The next one for me was the Spiral. But there’s no guarantee they’ll go in the same order.”

“Well, it’s something, at least. What do we need to prepare for?” Tim studies Jon Prime. “If I’m remembering right, the…description of the painting didn’t have a symbol, so that means you’ve got a physical scar from it, right?”

Jon Prime rests a hand on his side, seemingly without conscious thought. “Yes. It—Michael came into my office. He, he was stalking a woman…she’d come to give a statement. I-I found out later Jonah directed her there with the idea of leading the Distortion, the Spiral, to me. He…took her when she tried to leave.”

“The painting title,” Martin murmurs. “ _There Has Never Been a Door There._ That means something, right?”

“It’s…all of those titles, at least in the ones of me, were things said during those encounters. My guess is that those were the points when it was irreversible, where I had gone too far and there was no chance of me leaving the encounter without a mark. The Distortion…it throws up those doors, leading to its realm, but it can’t actually pull you in. You have to open the door yourself. O-or knock, or whatever. Michael caused a door to appear in the wall of my office, and—”

“His victim took that door instead of the actual door,” Tim guesses.

Jon Prime nods. “I didn’t realize it myself until he pointed it out. And when I tried to argue with him, he stabbed me.”

“And because he was so paranoid at the time,” Martin Prime puts in, “Jon told _us_ he’d accidentally stabbed himself.”

“And you believed him?” Tim says incredulously.

“No. He’s usually a good liar, but the fact that taking statements used to drain him combined with the fact that he was bleeding heavily made it harder for him to be convincing. He was also really paranoid at the time, though—I was only just starting to realize _how_ paranoid—and I decided not to push him on it. Mistake, maybe, but it felt like the right decision at the time.” Martin Prime raises an eyebrow in Jon Prime’s direction, albeit with a slight half-smile. “Which isn’t to say that I didn’t make it clear I was only humoring him.”

“He _hovered,_ ” Jon Prime tells them. There’s an undercurrent of affection in his voice. “At the time, I tried to convince myself there was something _sinister_ behind his constant attention, but even at my most paranoid I couldn’t quite manage it. I don’t know that I ever really believed you were a suspect.”

Martin Prime shakes his head. “Oh, I’m pretty sure you did. I know I wasn’t high on your list, but you did actually suspect me.”

Sasha looks back and forth between the two of them. “Sorry, have I missed part of this conversation?”

Jon holds up a hand. “While we’re discussing things that may have been missed—you keep talking about a _Not-Sasha._ You mentioned that in your statement, too, but—what _is_ that? Everyone but me seems to understand.”

Martin Prime looks slightly sheepish. So does Jon Prime. Tim studies both of them, then ventures, “Maybe you two could just…tell us everything you’ve been through? Or as much as you feel like we ought to know. You don’t have to give us all the details, but at least, like, the Cliff Notes version?”

The Primes look at each other, or at least in each other’s direction; Tim sees several emotions play out across Jon Prime’s face. Finally, he squeezes Martin Prime’s hand briefly and turns back to the others, nodding. “I think we can manage that.”

They begin to talk, starting with the attack on the Institute and the immediate fallout from that. Tim listens in growing alarm and horror as they lay out the bare bones of what they’ve gone through in the last two years. He can feel Martin trembling at his side, while on the other, Sasha actually pulls away from him, leaning forward slightly with an intent expression, like she’s drinking in all the information. When Jon Prime describes his desperate flight into the tunnels to escape the thing pretending to wear Sasha’s face, Jon lets out a soft, high-pitched noise of fear and pain.

Tim doesn’t think; he just reacts. He reaches over and grabs Jon, dragging him over Martin’s lap and only belatedly remembering the mug of tea, which Jon fortunately no longer appears to be holding. There’s not really time for either of them to be startled before Tim has Jon slotted into the spot between Tim and Martin. Before they had Martin between them because, Tim suspects, they both felt the need to protect him; now it’s Jon who needs that protection. Tim puts his arm around Jon’s shoulders and touches Martin’s on the other side. Martin, almost hesitantly, does the same. Jon stiffens for just a second, then seems to melt back against their crossed arms.

A look flits across Jon Prime’s face for a second, warmth mingled with pure, unadulterated pain, and it makes Tim unconsciously shift a little closer to Jon. Jon Prime doesn’t comment, though, merely takes a deep breath and continues talking.

True to Tim’s suggestion, they don’t give all the details, but the little they do tell is enough. Jon reaches over and grabs Tim’s hand while Martin squeezes his shoulder when Martin Prime’s voice cracks telling them about the phone call from the one person to walk away from the Unknowing alive and unhurt; the three of them bunch closer together when Jon Prime grits out the basics of his interview with Jared Hopworth; Jon takes Martin’s free hand as gently as possible when they lay out the bare bones of the confrontation with Peter Lukas. Sasha occasionally shoots sympathetic glances in their direction, at least at first, but she seems more focused on the tale than on her colleagues’ reactions.

“…And then the world ended,” Jon Prime concludes, sounding tired.

Martin exhales hard. “Christ.”

Sasha cocks her head to one side, studying the Primes. “And then what?”

“And then we decided to try and fix it.”

“No, I mean, what was it like? The end of the world. What happened? What did it look like?”

Jon Prime stares at Sasha. He looks both genuinely confused and not a little alarmed. His eyes slide over to the knot of humanity that is Tim, Jon, and Martin, then back to Sasha. Tim would give a year’s salary to know his thoughts.

“It did exactly what Jonah wanted it to do,” Martin Prime says, his voice sharpened to the same point as when he answered Sasha’s probing questions about her fate. “And it looked like hell on Earth.”

Sasha jerks backwards, then blinks hard and presses her fingertips to her mouth. “I did it again, didn’t I?”

“‘It’?” Jon Prime repeats.

“I asked him why I didn’t have more marks in your timeline,” Sasha says through her fingers. “Even though I knew I was—that the me in your time had died. I knew that from the picture. But I pushed him, I made him say it out loud. I _swear_ I’m not usually like this. I-I mean, I’m curious, don’t get me wrong. I want to know things. But I usually know to stop before…I don’t ask questions I can guess the answer to just to watch people hurt.”

Jon Prime studies her for a moment. Quietly, he says, “You’ll forgive me if we keep a close eye on you, Sasha.”

“Please do. I—I don’t want to lose myself.”

Tim almost reaches over to take her hand, but all of his hands are currently occupied and she probably wouldn’t appreciate it anyway. He settles for nudging her ankle with his foot. She nudges back and manages a smile, lacing her fingers together. Tim returns his gaze to the Primes and tries to regain his equilibrium, to summon up a way to break the heavy mood that’s settled over them, or at least ease it back. At the same time, he has a question that’s been persisting in the back of his mind, and he knows he needs to ask it before he lets it fester.

“While we’re asking questions,” he says. “You said I wouldn’t like the way to make the dreams stop. I’m assuming it’s not the same ‘only when they die’ thing as you told Jon when he asked.”

“No. Those are…two very different things.” Jon Prime rubs his thumb over Martin Prime’s knuckles. It looks like it might be hard enough to hurt.

“What _did_ you mean by that?” Jon asks, sounding almost afraid of the answer.

“You’ve only got two right now, right?” Jon Prime frowns, like he’s trying to remember. “The woman in the cemetery and the…incident in the Cambridge Military Hospital.”

“Yes.” Jon’s voice is barely above a whisper. “God, you’re not telling me there will be _more?_ ”

“I’m afraid so. The dreams are a side effect of the statements, or…perhaps an extension of them. Strictly speaking, they aren’t _your_ dreams. They’re the dreams of those who experienced them at first—those who handed over their terror to you in the first place. You’re simply…watching them.”

Jon’s eyes widen. “Oh, God.”

“W-wait, you can just—you can just see people’s dreams?” Martin demands.

“Not quite. It’s more…when is terror at its most pure? When it’s being experienced firsthand…and when you relive it in the dead of night.”

Tim flinches, because Jon Prime is right. He doesn’t remember being scared in the theater the first time, although he knows he must have been, but when he dreams about it, it’s always so much worse, because he _knows_ and he’s powerless to stop it. Martin’s fingers squeeze against his shoulder again, even though he can’t know what Tim is thinking of, which in retrospect is totally unfair because Martin’s trusted Tim with so much about himself and Tim has trusted him so little in return.

Jon is shaking his head. “No, but—i-if it’s the real statements, I—why don’t I dream about the others, then? God, I’d have thought Carlos Vittery’s statement would give me nightmares, but—”

“ _Your_ fear isn’t interesting to the Ceaseless Watcher,” Jon Prime says. “Not when it can see it whenever it wants to. It’s the same for your assistants, which is why you weren’t all sharing nightmares about the infestation last night. And the ones you’ve recorded, the—the stale ones, that’s why they’re not as satisfying to…well, me, I suppose. It’s all secondhand. You’re not drawing the terror right out of them. The _live_ statements, though…you sat with them, you drew out their fears, you heard and felt their emotional connection. You’ve also created a connection from them to the Watcher itself. Now when they dream about it, there’s the added terror of not only what they’re going through, but also the knowledge that someone, some _thing,_ is standing right there watching them and doing _nothing_ to stop it.”

Jon flinches hard. Even Tim feels a stab of pain lance through him at the thought. “Wait, they can see him? You? I mean, you said you didn’t dream last night…”

“Because, in this timeline, _I_ haven’t heard any of the statements, I suppose,” Jon Prime says. “We didn’t really need to sleep after the world ended, and on the rare occasions I did…the Eye probably considered those pre-apocalyptic fears petty and pedestrian, compared to the horrors available after. Assuming…” He trails off. “Anyway, the only one who’s actually given a statement to you so far that I might still be able to see is Naomi Hearn. I stopped seeing Melanie in my dreams after she joined the Institute, which is why Daisy joined in the first place. To make the dreams stop. Otherwise, the only way they tend to stop dreaming about it is if they die.”

And suddenly, Tim gets it. “So that’s how to stop my dreams. To make a statement about them.”

“Essentially, yes. A-at least I think that’s how it works. Our Tim didn’t make a statement directly to me, I—I was in America at the time. Martin was the one who did the recording.”

“They stopped,” Martin Prime says quietly. “He thanked me later. Grudgingly. Said maybe not talking about it had kept him obsessing over it in his sleep. I didn’t put the pieces together until…after, and I still don’t know if they stopped before you listened to the tape or not.”

Martin cocks his head, studying his counterpart. “And you won’t have dreams? After…” He gestures at the recorder, then seems to remember Martin Prime can’t see him. “After giving your statement?”

“No. I’m cut off from the Eye completely.” Martin Prime taps the corner of his eye for emphasis. “It can’t See me, and therefore can’t use me. Melanie was the same.”

Tim’s still trying to wrap his brain around the angry former B-list Internet celebrity being part of their team, but he can at least see her gouging her own eyes out to get away from it. “Okay. So we’ve established the swirling vortex of terror that is your lives. How do we stop that from happening to us?”

“In the first place,” Jon Prime says, “don’t let Jonah know how much you know.”

“Can he read minds?” Martin asks nervously.

“In a limited fashion. It really depends on how hard he’s concentrating and how much you’re thinking about…whatever it is.” Jon Prime appears to think for a moment. “I think it may be stronger if it’s directed at him. He certainly always seemed to know when Melanie was about to make her latest attempt on his life.”

“To be fair, that was most of the time,” Martin Prime points out.

“Yes, well, point. But still. He never…all right, truth be told, he never exactly outright _said_ what he knew, unless it was to his advantage. Like when he…” Jon Prime trails off.

“Like when he went after me,” Martin Prime supplies quietly. “Or Melanie. But for what it’s worth, I think you’re right. I think it’s…harder for him to sift through people’s brains if they’re not in the room with him, or if they’re not aiming in his direction. And he outright told me he’d never considered me worth paying that much attention to until I started burning those statements.”

“He knew—” Jon Prime begins and then snaps off the sentence. Tim almost misses the quick, slightly guilty glance he shoots in Martin’s direction.

“Jon, I’m almost completely certain that the only person at the Institute who _didn’t_ know that was you.”

Jon Prime ducks his head sheepishly, but his lips quirk upwards in a smile nevertheless, and his eyes are warm as he regards Martin Prime. Seeing them like this feels _right,_ and Tim tries to ignore the sudden flash of melancholy in his chest.

“Anyway,” Jon Prime says, returning his gaze to the four on the sofa and obviously fighting to get his face under control, “as we said earlier, if Jonah guesses you know anything, he may…do something drastic. So the first step is going to be to keep him from knowing you’re not as ignorant as he wants you to be. You especially, Archivist.”

“Don’t think I don’t know why you’re doing that, Jon,” Martin Prime says warningly.

Tim has no idea what he’s talking about, but it’s evident Jon Prime does. He looks like he’s gearing up to argue, then evidently changes his mind and sighs. “Right. You’re right. I’m sorry.” Turning back to Jon, he continues, “It’s why he murdered Jurgen Leitner in the first place—to keep me as ignorant as possible.”

“So if he knows that any of us have figured it out, he’ll kill us before we can tell Jon,” Sasha says. “What would he do if he knew Jon knew? If it’s okay to ask that,” she adds quickly.

Jon Prime gives her a quick half-smile. “That’s fine. And don’t worry, Martin, I’m not trying anything,” he adds, squeezing Martin Prime’s hand. “That’s a hypothetical, so I can’t Know that for sure, but my guess is that he’d kill him and go looking for a new Archivist. Again.”

Tim flinches at the bland statement. “Right, and we obviously want to prevent that. I mean, apart from the obvious ‘let’s not end the world’ thing, we definitely want Jon to stay alive. So apart from continuing to play stupid, what’s the plan?”

Jon Prime hesitates and looks at Martin Prime, who grimaces. “That’s…we probably can’t tell you our plan in detail. Let’s just say it’s best if you _are_ actually ignorant of that until it happens. For your part, just…watch out for one another. Don’t let Elias push you apart. He’s…very good at sowing seeds of discontent under the guise of ‘promoting a healthy workplace environment’. And for God’s sake, keep an eye out for anything _odd._ Be careful when you’re out investigating statements.” His eyes flick up to Tim’s for a moment, and Tim swallows down a bit of not wholly unwarranted guilt at the worry in them. “If it’s something you’re truly worried about, get word to us and we’ll see what we can do to help. Either by giving you the information you need without you having to chase it down or by, well, chasing it down for you.”

“You can do that?” Martin sounds genuinely surprised.

“Why not? For the most part, we do know the answers, but if it’s something Elias is going to want proof for, we can easily get it for you.”

Tim notes, if only to himself, that Jon Prime refers to their evil overlord as _Elias_ when he’s talking about day-to-day Institute business and _Jonah_ the rest of the time. It’s probably a useful distinction. “What do we do about the table? If it comes?”

“I—I assume it’s _when,_ not _if._ Breekon and Hope will have to deliver it at some point. And, honestly, I don’t know.” Jon Prime sighs. “Elias suggested we destroy it. I’m still not sure if it’s because he wanted me to destroy it so the thing trapped by it would get loose and come after me or if it was because he thought suggesting it be destroyed was the best way to make me _not_ destroy it, so the thing could catch someone unaware.”

“Honestly, I don’t think he knew for sure what it was,” Martin Prime says slowly. “Not until it…well, you know. Not until after the attack. I think he really _did_ want it destroyed. Maybe he saw it as a legitimate threat. But we still don’t really know what to do with it. Sasha, you worked in Artifact Storage—would they leave it alone if you sent up a copy of Amy Patel’s statement, maybe warned them what might be in it?”

“No. That’d be the fastest way to _make_ them investigate it, actually. Addison—Dr. Bradley—can get a bit…obsessive about things that might actually have some paranormal significance.” Sasha purses up her lips thoughtfully. “On the other hand—why suggest destroying it to _you?_ I mean, technically if it’s in the purview of Artifact Storage…”

“I think it’s because it was technically delivered to me. Rosie signed for it and had them take it up to Artifact Storage because, well, it was an artifact, but it was addressed to me. I-I suppose it was, strictly speaking, mine to dispose of as I saw fit.”

“Then I think all Jon has to say is ‘don’t touch it’. Lock it in its own room. That ought to do it.” Sasha seems uncertain. “Maybe.”

Jon swallows hard. “Right. As long as they bring it to me at the Institute and not…personally.”

Jon Prime offers him what he probably hopes is a reassuring smile. “I actually do have some small idea, but I’d need to…unfortunately, take a look at the table before I can be sure. And I’m not sure I can risk that.”

“Yeah, there are actually cameras up in Artifact Storage,” Sasha says. “But, I mean, would they be good enough to pick out the differences in the two of you?”

“I don’t know that my ability to shield myself from Jonah’s…attentions will extend to CCTV, so I’d rather not try,” Jon Prime answers. “Not until we’re a little more secure. A bit more settled.”

Jon takes a deep breath. “Well, you’ve got a few days to decide. Elias was a bit grudging when I asked him to give us a day or two to breathe, but either he finally realized none of us would get much work done with the Archives knee-deep in worm corpses or it occurred to him the police are going to want to look into some things—”

“Or he recognized that you were about six seconds from either a complete mental breakdown or a homicidal rampage,” Tim interjects.

“Tim!” Martin says reproachfully.

“I’m serious. You were in quarantine, you didn’t see the way he was trying to chew through anyone remotely official.”

“Nobody would _tell_ me anything,” Jon mumbles.

Jon Prime smiles. “Whatever the reasoning, Elias did at least agree to give you some time off?”

Jon nods and looks up. “Until Monday. A-and of course Martin’s going to be out for a while. You’re—you’re not in any shape to come back right now. You need to rest.”

“Yeah.” Martin exhales heavily and frees his hand from Jon’s to rub it over his face. “Another however many weeks holed up in my flat, I guess. At least this time I’ll have power. Maybe.”

Martin Prime winces. “Ah—about that? You didn’t think to get in touch with Mrs. Mattson, did you?”

“N—oh, Christ, the lease was up for renewal on the twelfth.” Martin pales. “It’s only been a couple weeks—m-maybe it’ll still be okay?”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re staying here,” Tim tells him.

“Tim—”

“No, don’t you ‘Tim’ me. You don’t need to stay on your own when I’ve got plenty of space right here. And it’ll make me feel better if you’re somewhere I can keep an eye on you, just in case things get bad.” Tim makes an effort to soften his voice. “You’ve been alone enough. Why do it again if you don’t have to?”

Martin blinks at him in evident surprise. Jon eases his hand away from Tim’s and touches Martin’s knee lightly. “I know I’d feel better if there was someone looking out for you. I—I shouldn’t have left you alone in the Archives, and I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s—it’s not your fault.” Martin doesn’t seem to know what to do with all of this, but he does at least seem to realize that he’s only being given one option. “All right. If—if you’re sure.”

Tim nods, then adds to Jon, “You’re staying, too, you know.”

“What?” Jon looks startled.

“I’m serious. Look, call me paranoid if you want, but…after what we just went through? After what we’ve just _heard?_ I don’t want to let any of you out of my sight, and if that makes me sound crazy, I’ll live with that. The point is that I _will_ live with it, and so will you. Just…please. At least until we’ve got a better handle on everything.” Tim looks from Jon to Sasha and back. “I can even clean out the study and turn it back into a spare room.”

“Tim, that’s not necessary,” Jon says softly. “I—of course. I-if it means that much to you, I’ll stay for a while.”

Sasha manages a smile. “Yeah, all right, why not? God knows you need a keeper, too.”

“Shut up,” Tim grumbles without any real heat. He looks over at the Primes, who are both regarding him a little sadly. “It’s a given that you two are staying, of course. Don’t suppose you have anywhere else to go.”

Martin Prime’s cheeks color slightly, and Tim realizes how that probably came out. Before he can apologize, Jon Prime says, “As much as I’d rather not, all things considered, we’re planning on staying in the tunnels. Keeps us close to the Institute, keeps us a bit more hidden, and puts us in a position to handle things as they come up.”

Tim nods. “Right, fine, but you may have forgotten the small detail that they’re probably a _crime scene_ right now. I mean, we found the shot-up body of a woman who’s been missing for the better part of a year down there, and you _know_ the police are going to be all through there, failing to find evidence of who shot her. If we’re not able to get in to _work,_ you’re not going to be able to get down there to hide out. You should at least stay here until it’s clear.” _And then I’ll figure out an excuse to keep you here a bit longer,_ he adds mentally. He knows it’s not his fault that his counterpart in their timeline was an asshole, and he knows he can’t exactly make up for that, but he’s going to try anyway.

He’s not sure why the sudden, intense need to protect everyone. Maybe it’s knowing that the—the _thing_ that took Danny from him is still out there (he’s not stupid; even though they didn’t say as much, he knows that the Unknowing and Danny’s death are connected) and that it’s not the only one of its kind. Maybe it’s that he’s more shaken than he wants to admit at the close call they had with losing Martin. Maybe it’s just hearing everything the Primes went through and knowing he’s powerless to fix it, but desperate to do anything he can to prevent it for _his_ Martin and Jon. And, well, if he can give the Primes a bit of comfort in the meantime, that’s no small feat.

Jon Prime looks startled. “We—Tim, it’s not safe. Even if Jonah can’t see us, there’s no guarantee anything else…God knows I attract enough attention under ordinary circumstances. It’s a miracle I got this far without incident. W-we can’t put you all in danger like that.”

“Not like we’ll be any safer if it’s just us,” Tim points out. “At least if you’re here, we can all keep an eye on each other.”

“You said that us both being in the same room would…muddle things, make it more difficult for Elias,” Jon says. “At least until I can…get a handle on all this. I—anything you can teach me to keep them safe.”

“I think we’re outnumbered, Jon,” Martin Prime says with a soft smile.

Jon Prime looks at him, then sighs, nods, and turns back to Tim. “All right. But only until it’s safe for us to move into the tunnels.”

Tim grins, relieved for reasons he chooses not to examine. “Great. Now then. Who’s up for lunch?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "That bastard" / "Now that you mention it, I am unable to vouch for his parentage" exchange is shamelessly borrowed from _Kane & Abel_ by Jeffrey Archer. It was too good not to use.
> 
> Also, just a quick note: I'm still waiting to hear back from my boss about whether or not I go back to work tomorrow, so Thursday's chapter may be later in the day than they've been these last couple weeks. (I know it's weird to say "here's to hoping", but seriously, here's to hoping.)


	19. Martin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin have an early-morning conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL THAT WAS CERTAINLY AN EPISODE NOW WASN'T IT.
> 
> How about some nice, soothing, heart-to-heart communication to make up for that, shall we?

It shouldn’t really startle Martin when he falls asleep mid-conversation. After all, it’s been a rather traumatic twenty-four hours, both physically and emotionally. He’s in a decent amount of pain, and he needs rest to heal. He knows all of that, logically. But he’s also never been good at sleeping if there’s anyone else awake in the room, so when he wakes up in a dark room and realizes that the last thing he recalls is Tim starting—but not finishing—one of his terrible jokes, he’s not sure what surprises him more, the fact that he fell asleep or the fact that he actually feels rested.

Sort of, anyway. He’s sore all over—the painkillers have obviously run their course—but he’s not too tired to think, and he’s obviously slept deeply. He stares at the blurry void currently standing in for the ceiling and tries to figure out how he feels about that. It should be a good thing, but it’s…well, there’s no other word for it, it’s _weird._

In the grand scheme of things, it’s not _that_ weird. Not as weird as the fact that he’s been talking to a future version of himself for eight days—somehow without knowing he’s _blind_ —or the fact that his future self and Jon’s future self seem insanely close. Not as weird as being held hostage by a woman riddled with worms or attacked in his workplace by that same woman and her moderately-sized army of parasites. Not as weird as entities fueled by fear or an apocalypse being caused by a semi-immortal man currently disguised as an ordinary pencil-pusher. It is, in fact, the ordinary kind of weird, and really, Martin shouldn’t be getting hung up on it. Nevertheless, here he is, unable to understand _when_ he came to trust the rest of the Archival team enough that he feels safe enough to fall asleep while they’re still awake to do things to him.

He really needs therapy, something he’s known for years, but several of the reasons he needs therapy tie into why he _avoids_ therapy and it’s just a whole mess. The only reason he hasn’t done it that doesn’t tie into yet another trauma or blow to his psyche is the fact that he really can’t afford it. He’s barely scraping by as it is, and God only knows how he’s going to manage the need to move. He’s been in the same building for eleven years and rent’s gone up twice, and it’s still cheaper than most other places. Even if he does find someplace that doesn’t cost more, he’ll have to come up with the first month’s rent _and_ the security deposit ahead of time, and then there’s the fact that he’s going to have to replace pretty much everything he owns that he didn’t manage to gather up for his temporary stay in the Archives; Jon and Sasha came back from getting their things and informed him regretfully that Mrs. Mattson had already thrown out what was left in his old flat and rented it out again. Add in the fact that he has to make up almost half of the fees at the home his mother insisted on moving into, and he’s not going to have the spare funds for, well, anything. Let alone therapy.

He sighs heavily and tries to sit up. It’s nice of Tim to let him sleep in the recliner, but when he first wakes up, it’s a bit of a struggle. And he honestly can’t figure out how he keeps lying back, since he’s pretty sure he falls asleep still sitting up. Maybe he’s doing it in his sleep, or maybe he’s just so tired he doesn’t remember settling back. Whatever it is, he discovered yesterday that it’s hard for him to use the appropriate strength to manipulate the recliner back into an upright position. Or at least to do it quietly. The others are still asleep—as far as he knows—and he doesn’t want to disturb them. He can tell himself all he wants that they need rest, that they deserve to have their sleep uninterrupted, that it’s been a rough couple of days for them too, but if he’s being honest it cycles back to his fear of the consequences of disturbing his mother while she was resting. Nine years and he still can’t make himself turn on a light before sunrise if the door isn’t firmly shut or listen to music without headphones after four in the afternoon. He wonders if he’ll ever be free.

The handle engages suddenly and the footrest goes down with a deceptively soft _thwump_ that rocks Martin forward abruptly. He bites back a gasp of pain and waits for the world to stop swimming.

“Martin?”

The whispered call from not far away makes him flinch. Martin looks up, apologies ready on his lips, then realizes he’s not wearing his glasses and has no idea who was talking. He fumbles for them and puts them on just as Jon steps carefully around the end of the coffee table and perches on the end of the sofa next to him.

“I heard you starting to wake up,” Jon says softly. He holds something out—a mug. “I, ah, I was making tea anyway, so I thought…”

“O-oh.” Martin blinks in surprise and reaches out carefully to take the mug. “Ah, thank you?”

Their fingers brush, and it’s all Martin can do not to drop the mug or spill it on himself. He can feel the blush rising in his cheeks. God, it’s probably visible even with no lights.

“You’re welcome. I—you do so much for us. It seemed like high time someone did something for you for a change.” Jon pauses, then adds, “I hope I got it right. I—I know I haven’t exactly asked, but it—it seemed like what I remembered from after dinner?”

Martin takes a cautious sip of the tea and nearly chokes in surprise. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

He can just make out Jon’s unfairly attractive smile before he brings his own mug to his lips. They sit in silence for a long moment, both of them seemingly lost in thought. Martin isn’t sure how much he’s actually thinking, though, beyond panicking slightly. It’s the first time he’s been alone with Jon, really, since he started living in the Archives. And after the last couple of days…he still has no idea where the two of them stand. If they’re on a friendlier footing, if they’ve found common ground, or if things are going to go back to normal once the initial shock wears off.

“What time is it?” he finally asks.

“About four in the morning. You’ve been asleep roughly nine hours.”

Martin exhales. “Christ, I had no idea I fell asleep that early.”

Jon tilts his head slightly. “Well, you’re healing. You’re likely going to do a fair amount of sleeping. We tried to keep it down.”

“I don’t mean to be an inconvenience like that,” Martin says, his stomach twisting. The idea that everyone has to be quiet because of _him…_

“Don’t be ridiculous, Martin, you’re not an inconvenience.” Jon sets his mug down on the table and turns to face Martin fully. “I—I know I’ve been overly critical of you over the last year. I really am sorry. I never meant to—I shouldn’t have treated you like that.”

“It’s—”

“Don’t say it’s all right. It _isn’t._ You’ve never been anything but diligent and conscientious, you’ve always gone above and beyond, and I—” Jon exhales. “The truth is, I-I was scared. I didn’t feel…adequate. Like I wasn’t up for the task. I didn’t—I never applied for this job either. Elias picked me, and I had no idea why. I don’t have a background in library science, o-or administration or anything like that. I couldn’t have told you why he offered me the job, but…well, I’m not sure I could have said no if I’d wanted to. A-and then you turned up in my office and said Elias had appointed you, and…I honestly thought he’d sent you to keep an eye on me. To, to report back to him if I stepped out of line or didn’t do the job properly. And then Rosie gave me a copy of your CV and I saw how long you’d been with the Institute, and all your credentials—”

“Most of which were fake.”

“Which I didn’t know at the time. I—I got intimidated.” Jon gives a small laugh. “I saw someone with more experience than all three of us put together and I thought, _God, he wanted this job and didn’t get it and now he’s going to be reporting back to Elias every time I step out of line._ I kept putting you down on the official recordings because—I don’t know, maybe part of me was hoping it would influence things in my favor if there was ever a dispute? And…I think I was projecting a lot of my own insecurities onto you. I am _deeply_ sorry.”

Well, Jon won’t let him say it’s all right, but…Martin swallows hard and tries to smile. “I forgive you. And I’m sorry, too. I should have told you the truth sooner, but…I don’t know. I was afraid you’d fire me.”

“Considering the first interaction we ever had was me threatening you over that dog, I’d be afraid I’d fire me too.” Jon pauses. “I wonder what would have happened if I’d actually tried.”

Martin actually doesn’t want to think about it. He looks into the depths of the mug in his hands, then sets it on the end table where his glasses were previously. “I’m sorry if I woke you up.”

“You didn’t—oh, you mean the ‘I heard you starting to wake up’ thing? I was already awake.” Jon sighs. “I honestly don’t sleep very well these days. I-it’s not just the nightmares, it’s also…the worrying. About you. All three of you, really, but—you in particular.”

“Me?” Martin’s voice is louder than he means it to be. Tim grunts from somewhere else in the room and both Martin and Jon freeze, but after a moment he makes an odd sort of snorfling sound and seems to settle back into sleep. Martin rubs a hand over his mouth, trying to be careful of the bandages.

“Why me?” he asks, remembering to whisper this time.

Jon is silent for a moment. Martin is about to apologize for having asked when he says, “I could be glib and say it’s because you were the one being stalked by Jane Prentiss, and that is part of it, but…it’s also just that it’s _you._ It’s not that I don’t think you can take care of yourself just as well as Tim or Sasha can. I do. It’s…I really wasn’t sure before the last couple of days why that was. I’m _still_ not completely sure, but I think I have a bit of a better idea.”

“We worry about you, too, you know.” Martin desperately wants to ask what Jon’s idea is, but he also doesn’t want to pry. “Ask, erm, Martin Prime. I asked him what I could do to help and he said not to let you get hurt and I kind of panicked a little.”

Jon chuckles. “I suppose that is a next-to-impossible task.”

“No, I mean I panicked at the idea that you _would_ get hurt,” Martin says. He wonders how much he can say without betraying how he feels. The Primes are close friends, that much is obvious, but he and Jon aren’t anywhere near that point and he doesn’t want to ruin his chances of even that by blurting out that he’s fallen for his boss like a ton of bricks. This is also probably not the time to bring it up. They’re all a bit…emotionally compromised right now, and he’s still not sure what’s going to happen when the adrenaline of the last two days wears off. Even if Jon’s just said he worries about Martin. Fleetingly, he wonders if Martin Prime ever told Jon Prime how he felt and when, and he wishes it was a question he thought to ask while they had some time alone in the last week. “I-I mean, that was my biggest worry when I realized Jane Prentiss had followed me home, you know? I wasn’t _just_ worried about what she’d do to me. I was worried she might…follow me to the Archives. Come after one of you, but especially you. A-and then when she texted you after I made my statement…” He sighs. “It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid. But there was a part of me thinking that if I needed to stay in the Archives, maybe the rest of you should have too, you know?”

“No, you’re—you’re not wrong. Truthfully, that was one of the things that I kept obsessing over last night,” Jon confesses in a low voice. “When I saw—when I realized—” He breaks off and looks away. “All I could think was that something had happened, that you could be hurt, and that you’d been _alone_ and—God, I should have insisted we all stay. Or that you come stay with one of us from the outset. Although in retrospect…I’m not certain what would have happened if your counterpart had been alone in the Archives at the time. Not that I knew he was there, but…”

“Yeah,” Martin says quietly. He swallows against the sudden, unexpected lump in his throat. “I’m—I’m still glad you weren’t there, though. I-I was glad when it happened, and I was even _more_ glad when I saw Jon Prime and…honestly, Jon, this _sucks._ I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Least of all you. O-or Tim,” he adds hastily. “Or Sasha, but, I mean, she didn’t…not in their timeline, anyway.”

“No, but…that doesn’t mean we wanted you to have to get hurt, either,” Jon says. “It’s not exactly a fair trade.” He looks up at Martin. “A-are you in pain? Do you need your painkillers?”

The answer is _yes,_ but Martin fights the urge to nod. “They, ah, they have to be taken with food. It’s—it’s not as bad as it was yesterday, at least.”

“Hold on. I think I can help with that.”

“Jon—” Martin begins, but it’s too late. Jon has already stood up from the sofa and headed in the direction of the kitchen.

Martin swears under his breath in Polish, then manages to get to his feet without hurting himself. He carefully picks up both mugs of tea and follows Jon, a bit more slowly. Partly it’s the pain, partly it’s force of habit. He doesn’t know where the joists or creaky floorboards might be, and it’s still early, he can’t risk waking people up because he’s _walking_ too loudly. He’s already had one close call too many tonight.

He makes it to the kitchen. Jon is messing about with something, using the night-light mounted above the sink to see by. Martin can’t see what he’s doing. He sets the mugs down carefully on the table and asks, “What are you doing?”

Jon jumps and whirls around, brandishing a butter knife in one hand. He relaxes. “Martin—I didn’t hear you come in. I—I just thought—” He gestures at the counter. “It’s not much, but I thought I’d make you a sandwich at least. Get something in your stomach so you can take the pills.”

“You really don’t have to do that,” Martin protests, feeling his cheeks heat up. “I-I can wait until—”

“I’m sure you can, but there’s no reason you should,” Jon says briskly. “It’s been enough time that you’re certainly able to take your painkillers, and you need them, so why wait and make yourself feel worse?”

There’s a certain amount of logic in that, Martin has to admit. “I just…don’t want to be a bother.”

Jon places a sandwich in front of him firmly and lays a hand on his arm. “Martin,” he says sincerely, “the _last_ thing you are is a bother. Sit down and eat. I’ll be right back.”

He heads out of the kitchen, leaving Martin incredibly confused and slightly embarrassed.

Lacking any better option, he sits down to eat the sandwich Jon has made for him. He doesn’t know what to expect, but it’s certainly not what he bites into. The first taste of it on his tongue almost makes him cry, and he closes his eyes, savoring it.

He hears footsteps and swallows hastily, opening his eyes as Jon comes back into the room. He sets the pill bottle next to Martin’s elbow, then sits down next to him and picks up his mug of tea. “Is it all right?”

“It’s perfect,” Martin says before he thinks it through and almost swallows his tongue. Oh, well, no taking it back now—best to press forward. “I didn’t know Tim ate cherry preserves.”

“I don’t think he does. He teased me a bit about being ‘elitist’ the first time he saw me eating them.”

Martin stops mid-chew and definitely swallows a too-solid bite. It takes him a second before he’s able to speak. “You like them, too?”

Jon’s eyes widen. “Too? I—I mean, obviously you like them, you’re eating the sandwich—God, I didn’t even think to ask, I just assumed…”

“No, it’s—I’ve always liked them,” Martin says. “My—my granddad had a couple cherry trees in his backyard. He used to make preserves every year, and…I dunno. They just remind me of visiting him.” He takes another bite of the sandwich.

Jon nods thoughtfully. “I’ve always been fond of cherry preserves. Well, cherry anything, actually. My grandmother used to bake cherry pies on my birthday in lieu of a cake.”

Martin smiles. “Granddad always did that for me, too.”

“I’ll remember that for next year.” Jon smiles, too.

For a few minutes, there’s silence as Martin finishes the sandwich. When the last bite is gone, Jon takes the plate and gets up to wash it while Martin struggles for a moment to get the cap off the pill vial and shake out a painkiller. The moment feels oddly…domestic. Calm. Cosy. Martin isn’t sure what to do with it, but he decides to try and let himself enjoy it. It’s never worked for him before, but he can give it a shot.

Finally, Jon sits back down next to him. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” It’s not just the painkiller, which probably hasn’t actually started to work yet. It’s the tea, and the sandwich, and Jon being nice. He tries to figure out how to articulate it, then finally says, “It’s the first time in I don’t know how long that I don’t feel _afraid._ ”

Jon exhales. “I know the feeling. I mean—I know I _should_ be. The world is objectively terrifying, and learning what we learned today made that exponentially worse. But…this right here? I’m definitely calmer and more relaxed than I’ve been since I took the Archivist job.”

Something in Martin’s chest warms at the comment. It probably isn’t meant like that, but it’s nice to hear he’s not making Jon stressed by his mere presence, at least. And, hey, he can dream. All he says, though, is, “’S nice.”

“It is.” Jon takes a sip of his tea and stares into it for a moment, then snorts softly and shakes his head.

“What?”

“It’s just…something my counterpart said. While we were talking outside. I hadn’t thought about it before, but…he’s right.” Jon looks up. “He told me he hasn’t finished a cup of tea in years that—that his Martin hasn’t made for him. It just occurred to me that I’m the same way. Even when…those two weeks you weren’t in the office? When Jane Prentiss was—” He swallows hard. “I just realized that I would brew myself a cup of tea and it would just…sit on my desk and get cold. I never managed to drink more than half of it. I suppose it just tastes better when you make it.”

Martin doesn’t know quite how to respond to that. “You make tea just fine. This is perfect.”

Jon hums noncommittally. He seems to be debating with himself, then sighs. “You’re far more observant than I am at times…you know they’re together, right?”

Martin’s brain pulls up short. “Wait, _what?_ ”

“Our…counterparts. The Primes. They’re—they love each other. He told me that when I asked him, and…God, in retrospect, it’s so obvious. I-I suppose I just didn’t see it.” Jon looks suddenly nervous as he scans Martin’s face. “You’re more…in tune with that sort of thing than I. You _did_ know, didn’t you?”

“N-no,” Martin manages to stammer out. Oh, God, he can feel his cheeks heating up. Jon’s right, though, in retrospect it’s obvious. He thinks about all the little interactions the Primes have had with one another, the way they both fuss over each other, the way they seem to know what the other is thinking. The lighthearted, affectionate banter, the near-constant physical contact. Jon Prime rubbing his thumb over Martin Prime’s knuckles to calm himself when he gets overwhelmed, Martin Prime reaching for Jon Prime instinctively when he needs a hand up.

Then, suddenly, he remembers the way Martin Prime spoke about the person who was coming back to meet him, when he assured Martin that _if they’ve come through somewhere else, they’re looking for me._ Logically, he knows now that person was Jon Prime, but he somehow didn’t make the connection between the two. It’s as if his brain saw Jon Prime walk in and instantly erased every conclusion that conversation made him come to. It didn’t occur to him, at the time, that Jon would even bother to bring him back in time with him, let alone be looking for him. Now he takes a mental step back, re-evaluates every moment between the Primes in light of that conversation, and wants to smack himself on the forehead for being an idiot.

“You’re right, though. I _really_ should have figured that out sooner,” he murmurs. “God knows I had enough information to put it together. Guess I just assumed there couldn’t possibly be a universe where I—”

He snaps off the words as quickly as he can. Oh, God, he really almost said it out loud. Almost let Jon know how he feels. He’s not stupid, the Primes have a lot more history between them than he and Jon do, and he doesn’t doubt for a minute that they haven’t been together long, relatively speaking. Probably only since Jon Prime rescued Martin Prime from the Lonely. The circumstances that led them to this point are ones they’re trying to undo, and Martin seriously doubts he and Jon will ever get to that point. It’s best if he tries to let this thing die now and be happy for his counterpart getting this much.

Jon looks like he wants to ask him a question, but doesn’t. Instead, he says quietly, “They weren’t going to tell you. Us, I suppose, but…I asked him. How he felt about his Martin. Mostly because I was trying to figure out how _I_ felt about you, and I thought knowing his thoughts would help untangle mine.”

Martin has to try twice before he can get the words out. “Did it?”

Jon gives a small, humorless laugh. “Not really. In truth, it just made things _more_ confusing. I…” He rubs his thumb against the knuckle of his index finger, the same nervous tic Jon Prime uses when he doesn’t have Martin Prime’s hand to hold. “I-I got scared when I arrived at the Institute the other night. I was…there was all that chaos, all those lights and sirens and activity, and—and I realized you weren’t in the crowd. All I could think of was that there’d been a fire and you hadn’t woken in time, or that you’d been trapped and been…burned or breathed in too much of the CO2 or something. I tried to—they wouldn’t let me in after you. Obviously. That makes perfect sense, but…at the time, all I could think of was that you were in there a-and I needed to get to you, that I needed to know you were safe. I was staring at the idea of a world without you and I couldn’t face it. And then…Elias told me Tim and Sasha were down there, and then mentioned Jane Prentiss, and it all got worse and…I don’t know, Martin, I’m rambling. But Tim’s right. I was—I must’ve shouted down half a dozen officials trying to get one of them to tell me where you were, _how_ you were, to—to let me see you. Everyone kept saying you were going to be all right, but I knew I wouldn’t believe it until I saw you.”

“I—I mean, if it had been Sasha or Tim—” Martin begins.

“I don’t know how I would have reacted if it had been them who was hurt. I was definitely worried about them, but…I don’t know.” Jon takes a deep breath. “I’ll be honest. I _still_ don’t really know how I feel. I—I do _care_ about you. I worry about you, I want you to be safe. Beyond that, I—I’m afraid I don’t know.” He manages a small, slightly roguish smile. “I don’t suppose _you_ know how _you_ feel.”

“Oh, Christ,” Martin practically whines. This is not how he wanted any of this to come out, and he doesn’t know if he should say it.

Then it occurs to him that Jon didn’t ask. Jon, who has just learned that he’s developing the ability to force people to answer his questions, and who is probably more likely to do it when he’s tired or stressed out, _deliberately_ avoided actually asking a question. It’s a simple statement. He’s giving Martin permission to _not_ say a word if he doesn’t want to.

Which…actually, weirdly, makes him want to.

He takes a deep breath. “O-okay. The truth is…I’ve kind of had a crush on you for a while. I wasn’t going to say anything, because it’s—I mean, I didn’t want to make things _weird,_ a-and I know you—I was just trying for ‘he doesn’t think I’m a complete idiot’ for a while there. I also thought it was just a stupid workplace crush, and I was kind of hoping it would eventually go away on its own. It didn’t. Ever since I started living in the Archives, it’s just got _worse._ I guess that’s why I didn’t realize how the Primes felt about each other. I kind of thought I was projecting, o-or seeing what I wanted to see, maybe? I don’t know. But I do worry, and I do…I do _care.”_

“That’s not why you went back to Carlos Vittery’s apartment, is it?” Jon’s voice is so soft Martin almost doesn’t hear it, but his eyes are worried. “Because you thought I…?”

“No,” Martin assures him. “No, I—you know, I know I said I was trying to ‘make sure I’d done my due diligence’ and all that, but what was behind that was that I’d been…I felt _pressured_ to go back. Like a nagging, persistent headache. I get it all the time, really, when I’m doing research. Remember when you sent me to track down that…that Angela woman? For the—”

“The man who was falling to pieces. I remember.”

“I know you got exasperated with me, but I literally _couldn’t_ stop until I’d talked to every Angela I could find. I’d think ‘well, I’m not going to find her, I’m going back to the Institute now,’ but I’d get this blinding headache and it wouldn’t go away until I went ‘okay, just one more.’ It’s only got worse as time goes on. So no, I didn’t…get myself into this mess because I was trying to impress you or whatever.” Martin can’t help the small, nervous chuckle that escapes him. “’Course, if it _did_ impress you, I wouldn’t complain.”

“What impressed me was that you kept your head well enough to survive and get back to your apartment, never mind the Institute,” Jon says warmly. “If it were me, I’d likely have done something stupid like go back for my phone when I realized I’d dropped it.” He sighs. “I—I don’t want to make things awkward. But I also don’t want to…promise anything.”

“I don’t expect anything, Jon.” Martin learned a long time ago _not_ to expect anything. As far as he’s concerned, the phrase _good things come to those who wait_ is inapplicable. In his case, it’s more like _good things come to those who aren’t you._ He has friends, in Tim and Sasha at least. That’s more than he probably deserves.

Jon studies him for a moment, then smiles slightly and holds out his hand. “How about I apologize for being such an ass to you, and we start with friends and see where it goes from there?”

This is the last thing Martin would have ever anticipated, but he’s certainly not going to object. He smiles in reply and takes Jon’s hand. “Deal.”

They shake on it—very gently, Jon is careful of the healing wounds on Martin’s hands—and then sit back. Jon studies Martin. “Did they tell you how long you’ll need to wear the bandages?”

“Until things stop bleeding when I take them off?” Martin shrugs. “Hopefully not too long. Some of them are…deeper than others. I’m supposed to make an appointment with my regular doctor for a follow-up in a couple of weeks.”

“We’ll make sure you get there safely,” Jon promises. He picks up his mug and salutes Martin with it. “After all, what are friends for?”

Martin grins, feeling more relaxed than he’s felt in a while, and salutes Jon back. “What indeed?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an FYI: I got sprung from self-isolation as of yesterday (*throws confetti*) but had to wait out the rest of the week before going back to work due to testing timing and my mother's symptoms. I _think_ I go back to work Monday, but my mom was told Tuesday, and since we live in the same household and work for the same company I'm waiting for our managers/AVPs to communicate with each other. Just...anticipate that starting next week, we will for sure be updating later in the evenings. I hope it'll be worth the wait.


	20. Jon Prime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that Martin is ready to go back to work, the Primes prepare to move into the tunnels beneath the Institute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was not necessarily how I intended this chapter to go when I started writing it, but characters gonna character. Also, we had a frankly ridiculous number of thunderstorms while I was working on this chapter, I think, so this is what came up. Bit shorter than some of the other chapters, but I hope it's worth it.

Jon had been worried, before they had come back in time, about how well he would adjust to being in the past, pre-Apocalypse. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to handle the lessened level of terror, or the need to eat and sleep completely again, or being, essentially, less than he’d been, or for that matter the urge to storm the Institute and throttle Jonah Magnus in his office. He’d fretted about a lot of things.

As it turned out, none of them were things he _needed_ to fret about.

His body reacclimated to human needs quickly enough, and it actually felt kind of _good_ to feel the rumble of hunger or the drag of exhaustion again. It was definitely good to get back to cooking, which he’d sorely missed doing even if it felt odd to be cooking for more than himself and Martin. Martin had been right about his statement fueling Jon for a while, and his younger counterpart had taken to bringing home any real statements he came across; it was enough. And with Martin there, he didn’t _feel_ less.

As for storming the Institute, that urge had been surprisingly easy to resist. Tim had managed to convince them to stay at his house longer by asking them to keep an eye on Past Martin while he healed. His excuse had been that Jon knew what Past Martin was going through and Martin knew what his past self was _like,_ so they could keep him from doing anything stupid. Jon guessed there was more to it than that, but he didn’t want to pry into anyone’s minds, so he just let it go and agreed. It seemed simpler.

Martin had adapted well, too. Granted, he’d still been human—as far as Jon knew—before they came back, and he’d had two weeks to adjust to being blind before they were reunited, but he’d picked up on the cane Tim bought him fairly quickly. He didn’t seem to need it around the house, though, and when Jon questioned him about that, Martin said that he had a _pretty good sense of direction when the world makes sense, Jon._ And, honestly, Jon couldn’t argue with that. Tim spent a Sunday afternoon reorganizing his cupboards, then showed Martin where everything was so he could feel more independent in the kitchen while Jon watched from the doorway with a grin.

Past Martin got stronger by the day. At first, he mostly slept, which was fine with Jon, since it meant he could spend time with Martin and not feel guilty. He’d accidentally fallen asleep with his head on Martin’s lap one afternoon and woken to soft laughter, which is how he found out that Past Martin and Past Jon had apparently discussed things and Sasha was the only member of what Tim insisted on referring to as Team Archives who didn’t know they were together. After that, they’d dropped the pretense and just been themselves. It had been a huge relief to Jon. It had also been a relief—and a surprise—that Tim didn’t tease them mercilessly, but when he mentioned that to Martin, Martin just laughed and shook his head.

They’d all fallen into an easy domesticity. It was honestly the most surreal thing Jon had experienced in probably his entire life. Sasha and Past Jon were still staying with Tim—Jon had no idea what argument Tim had used on them, but it seemed to be working—and Jon delighted in watching the three of them, together with Past Martin, draw closer together into a cohesive unit that would be harder for Jonah to manipulate. Often, he would come out of the spare room from recording a statement, tape recorder in hand, to find them sharing stories or playing games and laughing. Some nights he joined in on the games, too, but mostly he just sat back with Martin and watched, grinning.

There were arguments. Of course there were arguments. They were all human beings with their own personalities and quirks. Nothing was going to be perfect harmony. Thankfully, they were usually made up fairly quickly. It felt like home, in a way, something Jon hadn’t experienced in he didn’t know how long. He knew it couldn’t last, but he was determined to enjoy it while he could.

Several weeks passed like that. Jon could see the signs that Past Martin was getting restless and impatient to be back at work—he listened hungrily to the team’s tales of what they’d been up to, ventured tentative suggestions on avenues of research or possible connections they might have missed—but he was, ultimately, a far better patient than Jon had been. Not that that was difficult.

As Past Martin’s recovery progressed, the three of them began taking walks in the afternoon, Jon letting the two Martins go ahead of him and following just behind. Partly it was that there really wasn’t room for them to walk three abreast, but mostly it was him giving them the opportunity to see what they were capable of on their own while he watched their backs, literally. At first they were slow circuits of a single block, and then Past Martin needed to sit down for quite a while, but within a couple of weeks he was walking easily and seemed almost back to normal. The scars healed better than they had for Jon, partly because Martin’s skin was fairer than Jon’s but mostly because Past Martin was better about both following doctor’s orders and not picking at the healing wounds. Tim’s had healed about the same, Jon remembered, a thought which still sent a lance of melancholy through him. And finally, the day came when he returned triumphantly from a check-up with the news that he’d been cleared to return to work that Monday.

“We’ll be glad to have you back,” Past Jon said sincerely, actually smiling in a way Jon couldn’t remember smiling until the too-brief time he and Martin had had in Scotland. “It’s all kind of…I won’t lie, it’s odd to sit around and keep working like nothing has changed. Like we don’t know what’s going on. But we’ve managed. There’s a lot more than can be easily done with three, though.”

“I’ll do whatever you need,” Past Martin promised. “God, it’ll feel good to get back into things.”

“Kind of surprised you didn’t try to get us to let you come back earlier, actually,” Tim teased him. “Don’t think none of us saw you chomping at the bit.”

Past Martin gestured to Jon and Martin. “They wouldn’t let me bring it up.”

“How long did _you_ wait before going back?” Past Jon asked.

Jon grimaced. “A month. I should have stayed out longer, to be honest, and I ended up needing substantial physical therapy. But I was already obsessing over who killed Gertrude Robinson, and I didn’t handle being alone with my thoughts very well. Tim was out longer.”

“How long?” Tim asked curiously.

“Eight weeks, give or take.”

“So we _can_ be away from the Institute? I thought you said…” Tim trailed off.

Jon paused, knife suspended over the cutting board. “I—I never thought of that. God, how did I not think of that? Our Tim seemed fine when he first came back, and he never said anything, but…”

“You can be away from the Institute, just not for good,” Martin said. “When you’re out…convalescing, that’s one thing. Even if you’re on an extended vacation, that should be okay. It’s if you try to _leave_ , if you just up and walk away with the idea that you won’t be back, that you’ll have problems. As long as you really intend to come back at some point, it’s fine.”

Jon turned around and stared at Martin. “How long have you known that?”

“Since Elias told us we were trapped there?”

“My God, that was…” Jon rubbed his temple with his free hand. “Why didn’t you say anything? And please don’t say ‘it never really came up.’”

Martin actually smiled at that. “Honestly, Jon, I assumed you knew. I mean, you were away for ages, and I know Basira kept going off on…excursions. She might not have been gone long, but I just…I thought you’d figured it out. Especially when nothing really happened to us in Scotland.”

Jon hadn’t thought about _that_ , either. But yes, at the time they had meant to go back to the Institute eventually, hadn’t they? Or maybe the Eye had let them go because it knew what Jonah was plotting. Either way, Martin was right, he really ought to have figured that out sooner.

He sighed, turning back to his meal prep. “I can, as we have established, be a bit oblivious at times.”

Sasha gave an overly-dramatic gasp. “ _You?_ Never.”

“Oh, shut up,” Past Jon grumbled.

Tim snickered. “Hey, does that mean you two have to come back to the Institute, too?”

“That’s…more complicated.” Jon scraped the contents of the cutting board into the pot. “I’m bound closely enough to the Eye that I’m not…dependent on the Institute, I don’t think? As long as I’m taking statements, feeding the Eye, I’m fine. I believe. And Martin is cut off from the Eye entirely. But it’s a rather moot point, as we intend to move into the tunnels beneath the Institute anyway.”

“You can’t seriously be planning to do that,” Tim protested. “Come on, they can’t be comfortable—”

“They aren’t. But that’s not the point, Tim.” Jon sighed and reached for the spices he’d selected. “We are putting you in very real danger by being here. Besides, we’re not in a position to assist like we would be if we were closer to the Institute. I don’t particularly like them, but it’s the best option for everyone.”

Tim reached past Jon to get plates out of the cupboard, his expression mulish. Jon braced himself for whatever arguments Tim might throw his way and resolutely shut his mind against prying for it, but before he could say anything, Past Martin came up and put a hand on Tim’s shoulder.

“You can’t fix everything, Tim,” he said quietly. “And I know that’s rich, coming from me, but…we have to trust them. It’s not like we won’t ever see them again if they’re not living under your roof.”

Tim’s shoulders slumped. Jon caught his eye and offered him a smile. “It’s certainly no reflection on you, Tim. It’s just…we need to do this. I desperately need you to trust us.”

“I can give you that.” Tim managed a smile in reply, then turned to set the table. “You’re not planning to move in tonight, though, right?”

Jon was about to answer, then froze as a rumble of thunder sounded from outside. It was low and gentle, but the sound sent a shudder of horror running down his spine that he couldn’t explain. He had to stand, perfectly still, until the sound stopped.

“No,” he said as soon as he felt able. “Not tonight.”

He went back to what he was doing, or tried to, but there was obviously a storm building, and the next peal of thunder brought his breath up short. The spoon slipped out of his hand and into the pot.

“Are you okay?” Sasha’s voice seemed to be coming from a long way away.

“Fine,” Jon lied automatically. Really, this was ridiculous. There was no reason for this. Thunderstorms had never bothered him before; why were they suddenly an issue now? He retrieved the spoon and returned to cooking.

The others shifted the discussion to the logistics of smuggling Jon and Martin into the Institute and the tunnels beneath them without being spotted. Since Martin was already explaining about the other entrances, Jon didn’t feel the need to jump in. They would still need to figure out which entrance to use, or find one in the first place, and how to get there surreptitiously, but at least there were options beyond “hope to avoid the cameras mounted around the Institute when sneaking into the Archives and subsequently into the tunnels”. That would be the fastest way to tip Jonah off that something was going on.

Another roll of thunder sounded from almost directly overhead—not a sharp crack, but a long, rumbling bass growl. Jon felt it to his core, and he gasped, leaning over to catch himself against the counter. Suddenly he was in the spare room in the cabin in Scotland, the words being torn from his throat against his will: _I…OPEN…THE DOOR!_

“Whoa!” someone shouted.

“Shit, that’s—how is he—” someone else stammered.

“Get his hand off the burner!”

“Jon! Jon, it’s okay, I’m here, I’m here.”

Something brushed against him, and he jerked away, but then a hand wrapped around his arm and tugged him away from the counter, and then someone was wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. There was a confused babble of voices around him, but Jon couldn’t focus on it, couldn’t focus on anything but the thunder and the static filling his mind and the fact that for some reason his hand hurt, _why_ did his hand hurt…

“Jon,” the voice said again in his ear, and it was Martin’s voice, he sounded upset, he sounded _scared,_ and Jon couldn’t let him be scared but didn’t know how to fix it, so he looked up desperately and saw Martin’s face close to his. “Come on, let’s go in the other room, it’s okay. Come on, I’ve got you. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Jon couldn’t speak, could barely breathe. He just let Martin lead him out of the room they were in and into another, keeping his eyes fixed on Martin the whole time, and then they were sitting on something and Martin pulled Jon into his arms, onto his lap, and wrapped him up securely. One hand came up to cup the back of his head, the other rubbed his back in slow, soothing circles.

“I’m here, Jon,” Martin murmured, his voice low and gentle despite crackling with emotion. “You’re here. We’re both here and we’re safe. We’re in London. The world isn’t ending, Jon. You didn’t end the world. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

How, the small part of Jon that wasn’t numb with terror thought, did Martin always seem to know the right thing to say? It was a ridiculous thought, of course; Martin _didn’t_ always know the right thing to say, any more than Jon did, and they’d had more than a few arguments over one of them saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. But when it was a situation like this, when Jon panicked or got lost in his own head or was hurting, Martin always seemed to come up with the right words. Jon fisted his hands into Martin’s shirt and buried his face in his chest, focusing on the heartbeat that always soothed him when things got too bad. One of his hands, in a distant way, hurt, but he didn’t let go. He couldn’t.

Of course the world wasn’t ending. It _couldn’t_ be. How could the world end with Martin there? That was just ridiculous. If the world ended, he’d be all alone.

“You’re not alone, Jon,” Martin said, and shit, had he said that out loud? “I’m here. I will always be here. I won’t ever leave you. I promise. I’m here. I’m here.”

“You’re here,” Jon whispered. The words felt raw in his throat, but it felt good to say them. He whispered them again and again, and Martin whispered them back to him. They passed the words back and forth, _you’re here, I’m here, you’re here,_ and slowly, slowly, Jon felt the terror recede.

The storm didn’t lessen. If anything, it got worse, but oddly, that helped, too. The sharper the thunder got, the calmer Jon grew. A mighty thunderclap rattled the windows, and the power went out, making someone yelp from the other room, but Jon was able to take his first full breath. He slowly eased his grip on Martin’s shirt and sagged against him with a heavy sigh.

“Better?” Martin asked, rubbing his back.

“A little.” Jon tilted his head back and rested his chin on Martin’s chest, looking up at him. There was only the barest amount of light in the room, but it was enough to see the outline of his boyfriend’s face by. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Martin pressed a light kiss to Jon’s forehead. “How’s your hand?”

“Hmm?” Jon became aware that his hand _still_ hurt a lot. He eased it away from Martin and stared at it. It was red, almost raw, and he could see a couple of blisters on the palm that had miraculously remained intact, despite the grip he’d had on Martin’s shirt. “Oh. I—did I put it on the stove?”

“Apparently. Let me see.”

Jon managed a smile. He turned his hand over, palm up, and laid it in Martin’s. Martin hovered his thumb just over the top of Jon’s palm. “It’s still warm. Hold on, let me go find out what Tim’s got in that medicine cabinet of his.”

“Plenty,” a voice said from the doorway. Jon started, then relaxed when he realized it was his own voice, and that was _still_ weird to hear. He looked up to see Past Jon coming in, a torch in one hand and a small handful of supplies in the other. “I was going to just leave it on the table for you, but…”

“Thank you,” Jon said sincerely. He didn’t leave the comfort of Martin’s embrace, though. The panic had left him a bit shaky and he wasn’t sure he could really sit up on his own, but more than that, he honestly didn’t give a damn if it made him look weak to lean on Martin. That was part of what love was, right?

Past Jon set the things in his hands on the table, then lined them up. “Cool compress, lotion, gauze, bandages. Paracetamol on the end if you need it for the pain. I—do you need a spare hand?”

“We’ve got it, but thank you,” Martin said. He picked up the compress, then pressed it gently to Jon’s hand. It was obvious he’d done this before, in some capacity.

Past Jon nodded and straightened, then hesitated before leaving the room. Awkwardly, he asked, “Can I…are you sure you’re okay? That looked a lot like, well, a panic attack.”

“It was,” Jon said softly. He hesitated, looking up into Martin’s eyes. Even though he knew Martin wasn’t really looking back at him per se, that he couldn’t actually see him, he could _feel_ his attention, and they’d learned in the last few weeks that they knew each other well enough that they could still communicate wordlessly, to an extent. Turning back to his past self, he explained, “It was—the last thunderstorm I remember came up while I was reading…Jonah’s monologue.”

Past Jon flinched. “Ah. Well, I’ll, erm…I’ll leave you to that, then.” He gestured at the supplies and retreated back to the kitchen.

Jon and Martin sat in silence for a long moment. Martin kept applying pressure to the compress on Jon’s hand, his other hand securely supporting it, keeping it elevated. At last, Jon said, “I—I never asked if it was actually storming. That day. If it was…real thunder I heard or if it was just…the impending end of the world.”

“It was. I was on my way back. At first I thought I’d grab an umbrella, but then I thought…I thought I’d just stay downstairs until you finished your statement, then bring you a cup of tea or something. And then…” Martin trailed off and shook his head.

Jon bit his lip. “At least you made it back before…the Door Opened.”

“No, Jon,” Martin said softly. “I didn’t. I was still a good five minutes’ walk from the safe house when it happened.” He tried to laugh. “Ordinarily, anyway. I ran, as soon as I realized…I don’t know that I realized what _exactly_ was going on, but I knew it was bad, and I knew that it was probably coming after you.”

“My God, Martin.” Horror ran through Jon’s body, and he reached out with his free hand to grip Martin’s shirt again.

“Hey, careful, I need room to work.”

“You were _outside_ when—you c-could have been killed. God, I could have lost you and—”

“But you didn’t,” Martin reminded him. He leaned forward and rested his forehead against Jon’s for a moment. “I’m here, Jon. You’re here. We’re both here. We survived the end of the world. We made it. Together.”

Jon took a deep, steadying breath. “Maybe one day it won’t be so hard to remember that.”

“Well, I’ll always be here to remind you.” Martin straightened up and lifted the compress, then checked the heat of his palm and set the compress aside.

Jon glanced at the next item on the table and grimaced. “Of course the next step is lotion.”

“Do you want to do it yourself?” Martin asked. “You’ve got to keep things from drying out, but…I understand if someone else rubbing it in might be a bit much.”

At least that was something Jon had known he had an issue with before. Just not something he’d thought he would ever have to think about. He started to say yes, then shook his head, despite knowing Martin couldn’t see him. “No. No, will—will you do it? Please? I trust you.”

Martin’s face softened. They both knew what Jon was asking for. “Of course, Jon.”

He poured a little bit of the lotion into Jon’s hand. Jon tried hard not to flinch at the feel of it pooling into his cupped palm. Martin replaced the cap and set the bottle back on the table, nearly missing it, then took Jon’s hand and began gently massaging the lotion into it. Jon focused on Martin’s face and tried to regulate his breathing.

“Tell me something,” Martin requested abruptly.

Jon cocked his head, slightly off-balance. “What?”

“Anything. Your favorite play, your earliest childhood memory, your most embarrassing uni story. Anything.”

“O-oh, okay,” Jon said, surprised. He tried to think for a moment. “Ah—I’ve always been fond of _The Duchess of Padua._ ”

Martin smiled encouragingly. “Yeah? I don’t know that one. Tell me about it.”

Jon launched into an explanation of the plot. The more into it he got, the more wildly he gesticulated with the hand Martin wasn’t attending to. Martin listened to Jon ramble the way he always did, with a smile and a look of genuine interest as Jon went on about a topic he knew nothing about and honestly didn’t care all that much about. He’d even told Jon, simultaneously not long ago and an eternity ago, that he’d always hated the theater, yet here he was letting Jon describe in technical detail the plot of a play he’d had no good reason to fall in love with.

“—staged very often, or studied for that matter, but I always thought it was fascinating,” he concluded with a sigh. “I actually rose a bit in a professor’s esteem because I used that one as the basis for our term paper on one of Wilde’s works rather than _The Importance of Being Earnest_ or _The Picture of Dorian Gray.”_

“Yeah, I know how that goes. Best grade I ever got in school was on a paper I wrote on _The Ballad of Reading Gaol._ ” Martin set something on the coffee table. “How’s that?”

“I—” Jon looked down at his hand. The lights were still out, but his eyes had adjusted, and he could see the stark white bandage looped neatly around his hand, securing the gauze without being too tight. “Oh. You’re done.” He gave his boyfriend a slightly accusing look. “You were distracting me.”

“You were panicking,” Martin told him. He wrapped both arms around Jon again. “I really was listening, though. I love listening to you talk about something you know a lot about. Or even something you’re just pretending you know a lot about.”

“Hey,” Jon protested, but without any real heat. He tucked his head into the crook of Martin’s neck and sighed, curling into him. “Thank you. For taking care of me. For knowing me so well. For being here.”

“Where else would I be?” Martin kissed the crown of his head. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

How many times had they passed those words back and forth, Jon wondered? He could probably Know the exact number, with a little effort, but it didn’t matter, because it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. They could say it with every breath they had left from now until the end of time, and it still wouldn’t be enough. Jon had made a vow, kneeling in the remains of what had once been his boss’s office and pressing futilely against the gaping wounds in Martin’s chest, that he would never leave an opportunity to say them unsaid. They didn’t need to say it for each other to know, but it was important to Jon that they did. And while Martin never said as much, Jon knew it reassured him to hear confirmation every once in a while.

They sat in silence for a while, Jon letting Martin’s presence and the secure feel of his embrace soothe away the last of his lingering terror, or at least his lingering _immediate_ terror. The fear would never go away completely. He’d grown to accept that. But at least now it was just the usual hum of background terror that was his everyday life, rather than the sharp, immediate panic of a flashback. Here with Martin, he was as safe as he ever could be.

At last, he sighed. “We should probably go back into the other room before the others eat everything.”

“I’m sure they saved us some,” Martin said. “But sure. You’ll have to get up first.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re sitting on my lap, Jon.”

“Oh. Right. I knew that.” Jon managed to get to his feet. Martin chuckled as he stood, too.

Tim had lit several candles and was apparently mid-debate with Sasha over whether or not he should add another one to the mix. Past Jon rolled his eyes in Jon and Martin’s direction when they came in. “Please make them shut up.”

“Impossible, I’m afraid. They’re both breathing,” Jon said dryly. Tim snorted and Sasha stuck her tongue out at him. “It smells good in here. Have you been baking?”

“Electric oven. Jon barely finished cooking dinner before the power went out. It’s the candles,” Tim admitted. “One of the kids in the neighborhood keeps selling them to raise money for school trips and the like, and I’m apparently one of his best customers.”

“Well, if you add any more, the smell might be overpowering. Or you might set off your smoke detector.”

“Point. Okay, then, sit down and eat. We saved you a couple plates.”

Jon didn’t have to look at Martin to see the _I-told-you-so_ look on his face.

As they ate, Sasha slid a piece of paper towards him, covered in neat, still-unfamiliar handwriting that Jon presumed to be hers. “Can you think of anything on here we missed?”

The lighting wasn’t really adequate to read the paper clearly, and Jon was _tired_ , despite Martin’s presence and support; the panic attack had drained him a bit more than he’d expected. He was going to need something stronger than a couple of old statements to recover, but he had no idea how to go out and get it. It all combined to make him forget himself a little. He reached out with the Eye rather than his own eyes to skim the paper. _Sleeping mats, camp stoved, tinned food (ANYTHING but peaches)…_

“What’s all this?” he asked, picking it up to see a bit better.

“Supplies,” Past Jon said brusquely. “You didn’t think we’d make you stay in those tunnels without some way of being comfortable, did you?”

Actually, Jon hadn’t thought about it. He picked up the list and studied it more closely, with his actual vision this time. It seemed like a fairly comprehensive list. There were a few things on it that he recognized as bearing his boyfriend’s hallmark, unexpected items that nevertheless might, in certain circumstances, make a huge difference. He angled the paper towards Martin. “Anything you have to add?”

Martin raised an eyebrow. “Unless that’s written in Braille, I don’t think I’m going to be of much use there.”

“Oh. Right.” Jon was thankful that the combination of his complexion and the low light in the room would probably hide his blush from anyone whose eyes still functioned.

Tim looked back and forth between the two Martins. “Wait, you know Braille?”

Past Martin ducked his head, looking mortified. Martin, however, simply nodded slowly. “Mum had one of those pill keepers, you know the ones. I taught myself Braille so I could know which pills to get ready for her without turning on the light before she was ready to be awake.”

The look on both Tim and Past Jon’s faces made Jon slightly glad, and also slightly disappointed, that Martin’s mother was dead. Then he remembered that she’d died while he was in his coma, so she was _currently_ still alive in a nursing home in Devon refusing her son’s visits but accepting, even demanding, his money, and it was very difficult for him to swallow his own anger and uncharitable thoughts. He wasn’t a monster and couldn’t act like one, no matter how good his motives seemed.

Instead, he covered the moment by reading the list aloud to Martin. Martin listened and nodded and smiled when Jon hit the last item on the list. “I don’t think you need to worry about a tape recorder, honestly. They turn up on their own.”

“So I’ve noticed,” Tim said dryly. “But you said the tunnels blocked stuff at times. I figured, just in case…”

“Might be a comfort,” Past Martin suggested softly. It was the first thing he’d said since Jon and Martin had come into the kitchen.

“The tunnels don’t stop the recorders,” Jon said. “But…thank you. It’s thoughtful of you.”

Sasha nodded and took the list. “We’ll get everything together tomorrow, then, and you can find another entrance to the tunnels.”

“Will you be able to find the Archives?” Tim asked. “Through those tunnels, I mean? They’re a mess, honestly.”

“We’ll manage.” Jon actually wasn’t a hundred percent sure how easy it would be. He’d had a map made at one point, but that was after Leitner had manipulated things for him, and the tunnels were shielded from the Eye, somehow. He’d be lucky not to have to live with the ever-present…fuzziness he’d dealt with when they’d been staying with Georgie and Melanie and their inadvertent cult. But they really and truly didn’t have a choice.

“I suppose if we have to, we could put a—a beacon or something at the foot of the stairs under the trapdoor,” Past Jon said uncertainly.

Tim grinned. It looked slightly diabolical in the flickering candlelight. “Ooh, or one of those electronic gizmos they use in hunting to attract prey.”

“I’m very sure random deer calls would have the _opposite_ effect than luring us to where you want us to go,” Martin said with a smirk. “Have you ever heard those things? They’re _terrifying._ ”

The conversation devolved into a slightly silly discussion of the weirdest animal cries they’d ever heard, and Jon was able to breathe and eat his dinner without too much trouble.

That night, though, curled into bed with Martin, he said quietly, “What if it’s a bad idea? What if being down there…what if I fall apart again? What if it’s like at Salesa’s, but worse?”

“It won’t be,” Martin said. The confidence and assurance in his voice was almost a physical force.

“How can you know that, though?”

Martin ran a hand through Jon’s hair, gently untangling a knot that had probably got there during his panic attack in the living room. “Did you know that if you lose sight in one eye, you only lose something like twenty percent of your overall vision but all of your depth perception?”

“No?” Jon _could_ have known that, if he’d wanted to, obviously, but it wasn’t something he’d ever consciously set out to learn. He also didn’t see how it was relevant.

“I mean, you can sort of train yourself to compensate for the depth perception, but yeah, twenty percent of your vision. Mostly peripheral. It makes it harder to see people coming from that side of things.” Martin’s fingers caught in another knot. “The Beholder really had two eyes overlooking the Apocalypse, Jon. Jonah and you. He saw from the heights and you saw from ground level. He oversaw, and you…experienced. I’d even go so far as to say you were the dominant eye, so to speak. Of _course_ you were weak when you were cut off from it. It’s like a phantom pain. That won’t be an issue now. The Eye isn’t as…strong. You said yourself, you’re still…you, just not quite as…all-powerful?”

“Hopefully I’ve still got enough power to do what needs to be done,” Jon sighed, but Martin’s words were a comfort.

After a pause, Martin added, “And you have me.”

“And I have you,” Jon agreed. “And we can probably get fairly close to the Archives. All right, I know I’m probably worrying unnecessarily. It’s just…” He trailed off, tracing his fingers over the three puckered holes clustered just above Martin’s heart. Jonah had known what he was doing, far too well. “I can’t lose you again, Martin. I _can’t._ And I’ll never forgive myself if it happens because I wasn’t strong enough.”

Martin covered Jon’s hand with his own. “It won’t. You’re strong enough, Jon. I trust you. And you know I’ll be right there with you the whole time.”

“I know.” Jon snuggled into Martin’s chest, then leaned up to kiss him. “You know I can’t do this without you.”

“I wouldn’t want to see you try.”

Jon yawned and adjusted the covers over the both of them. Martin rolled onto his side and buried his face in Jon’s hair, and Jon sighed with almost-forgotten contentment as he drifted off to sleep, Martin’s heartbeat thudding steadily in his ear.


	21. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basira makes her first unofficial visit to the Archives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy hell, happy Thursday, y'all. ~~How 'bout that episode, huh? Hi, my name is Ollie, and I'm an _emotional wreck._ Hoo boy.~~
> 
> So! As you may have noticed, we're done with the exposition and moving into the actual plot. I _do_ actually know where this story is going; I just don't know how many chapters it's going to take to get there exactly. Once I do, I'll update the chapter count and make a note. Hopefully I'll be able to figure that out soon...
> 
> Also, for everyone who was asking about the family's health: We all got released from self-isolation. My brother went back to work last week, and also got the second round of his COVID vaccine; my mom and I went back to work this week. My uncle, fortunately (and confusingly, since he's in virtually _every single high risk category imaginable_ ), managed not to get it. We're doing much better.
> 
> Being back to work does mean my writing is going to slow down a bit, but hey, I've got a couple weeks' worth of a buffer here, and I should be able to maintain that. :) And it's worth it to not be sick.
> 
> Some of the dialogue at the beginning of this chapter is taken directly from MAG043.

“Jonathan Sims?”

Jon turns from where he’s been discussing their latest “difficult” statement with his team to find a woman standing a few feet away, arms folded across her chest and a challenging look on her face. He’s never been all that good at judging ages, but he would guess she’s around the same age as the rest of them. She scowls slightly as she watches them, and her lips tighten slightly as they skim over Tim and Sasha. That, combined with the dark green headscarf, tells Jon who she probably is, even though she’s in plainclothes.

He doesn’t want to give credence to the idea that he might be a spooky eldritch being, though, so he only says, “Can I help you?”

The woman gives him a sharp nod. “Police Constable Basira Hussain. I wondered if I might have a word with you?”

“O-oh, of course.” Jon tries not to be flustered. It’s not like he wasn’t warned this was going to happen. The Primes had mentioned Basira often enough, Jon Prime with studied detachment and Martin Prime with guarded understanding. Neither of them trust her, that’s obvious, but Jon clings to the faint hope that things will be different in this timeline, this now. Maybe she won’t be as…prickly.

One look in the eyes of the woman he leads into his office, of course, and he knows that’s a futile thought, but he can dream.

“This isn’t an official visit,” she tells him as soon as the door shuts behind her. “I’m not here as…I mean, I s’pose you know I’m the officer assigned to the case here.”

“Ah—yes, I did,” Jon says. It’s not technically a lie. It just wasn’t Sasha or Tim, the two people who theoretically spoke to her the night of the attack on the Institute, who told him. “Have a seat…can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? We might have some hot cocoa somewhere, Martin will—” He checks himself. Martin might know in _theory_ the contents of the cupboards in the break room, but given that this is his first day back on the job after almost eight weeks of medical leave, he probably doesn’t know what the actual levels are.

“I’m fine. Thanks.” Basira—it’s impossible to think of her has anything else—waits until Jon sits behind his desk before cautiously taking the visitor’s chair. The one where statement-givers usually sit. Two so far. Naomi Hearn and Melanie King. Four if you count Martin and Sasha. “Like I said, this isn’t an official visit.”

“Then why are you here, Ms. Hussain?” Jon forces himself not to use her first name. Not until—

“Call me Basira,” she says, and something in Jon relaxes. “I just…thought I should come talk to you, you know?”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Jon lies. Can she tell? He isn’t sure. Her eyes flick over his face, but she doesn’t call him on it.

Basira sighs. “I’ve heard stories about what this place is like. You collect statements, right? About…weird things that happen to people?”

“Yes. Anyone who’s had a…paranormal encounter is welcome to come give a statement to the Institute.”

“And what do you do with them?”

“We—ah, research them, as best we can,” Jon says, fumbling a little over his words. “Catalog them, store them here. We’re in the process of making audio recordings of any statements that haven’t…already been committed to tape, but—”

Basira’s gaze sharpens. “That what was in those boxes we retrieved with Gertrude Robinson’s body, then?”

Jon flinches at the stark words. “Ah. I—I actually don’t know. I didn’t see them, and, well, she was…I wasn’t part of the Archives when she was in charge here. I got promoted out of Research. I—I assume that’s what they are, but I don’t know.”

“Mm.” This time, Jon is sure Basira doesn’t believe him, but she lets it go. “Well…I’d like to make a statement. If you don’t mind.”

“Oh. Of course.” Jon isn’t surprised by that. “About what?”

Basira shrugs. “I’ve had some…experiences since I got shuffled into Section Thirty-One. They might be of interest to you.”

“Yes, I’d imagine so,” Jon says, half to himself. He sighs and reaches for the tape recorder, checks to be sure there’s a blank tape in it. Of course there is. There’s always a blank tape when he needs one. He sets it on the desk between them and turns it on.

He wonders, as they go through the preliminaries—her pointing out that she shouldn’t be talking to him, him reminding her that she came to _them_ —if he should warn her. If he should tell her about the nightmares, the hauntings. If he can persuade her to write down her statement so that Jon Prime can record it later and they can all be spared (that’s shot down quickly; _I’m not really big on writing, I’m more of a talker_ ). At the same time, there’s a part of him that’s—there’s no other word for it— _hungry,_ that’s reaching out for her statement. He can sense the tiny, tiny tendrils of fear curling through her, and he wants them.

Suddenly, abruptly, he wonders if she’s luring him on purpose. If she’s deliberately being cagey, teasing him with the forbidden nature of the information she wants to give him, just to see how desperate he is for it.

He almost walks away, but the truth is that he is _very_ desperate.

“Statement of Police Constable Basira Hussain regarding her time investigating… strange occurrences as part of Section Thirty-One. Statement taken direct from subject, July the fourth, 2016.”

Jon listens. He prompts Basira with questions when she stops, but for the most part, he…drinks in her statements, his eyes locked on hers. He can sense that she’s disconcerted, that she’s not used to being on this end of the interrogation, but he doesn’t think he cares. She spools her story onto the reel in a flat, businesslike tone. He’s almost disappointed that she doesn’t have more than two “official” stories.

“It’s…I don’t know,” Basira concludes. “I’ve been meaning to come in ever since that call-out.”

Jon wants to warn her to be careful, to watch what she says to the Institute, to _him._ At the same time, Jon Prime’s instructions are explicit; he needs to play the game, and he really does need the information on those tapes. Even if Jon Prime tells him about them, Elias will eventually start getting suspicious about where he’s getting this information if he doesn’t know Jon is getting the tapes from Basira. “So, um—so no one is helping you with Gertrude’s case? No oversight?”

“Not really.” The gleam in Basira’s eye is brief, but Jon, unlike his counterpart, is in control of himself and his emotions…mostly…and he catches it. He sees and interprets. She thinks she’s got a hook on him. “I tried making the argument that the murder didn’t seem to connect to any of your ‘paranormal business’, at least not directly, but nope. I’ve got a shot corpse, three boxes of cassettes, and Daisy, who’s CID now, which I suppose means it’s technically her problem, but she’s now the only detective who’s already sectioned so she’s always way too busy. As far as I know, neither of us have even had a chance to actually start listening to the tapes.”

“Interesting.” Jon’s heart beats a bit faster. “Er, listen—” He reaches over and switches off the recorder. Not that it’s going to do much good, but he might as well go through the motions. “M-maybe, er, maybe I could help?”

“Help?” One eyebrow almost disappears into her headscarf.

“I-I mean, if you’re…so behind on the work, and—well, I mean, we have the equipment here.” Jon gestures to the tape recorder. “We actually have more than one. I—I could listen to them, if you can bring them to me, and…let you know if they’re relevant to the case? It’s, it’s possible one of them might have her murder on it.”

He knows one does, of course, but he has no idea if it was with Gertrude or if Elias has kept it all this time. Jon Prime isn’t sure either, is only sure—now—that it’s Elias who eventually left it on his desk, in his timeline. The final clue Jon Prime needed to find Martin Prime, to rescue him from Peter Lukas and the Lonely. He’s not even sure if the tapes Basira will bring him will be the same. He can only hope they’ll be of use to them. To the Primes and their plan.

Basira studies him. “You want me to bring you police evidence. To _help_ with the case.”

“We do have _some_ resources you don’t,” Jon points out, and instantly regrets it. “I-I mean, we have those files marked ‘For Internal Use Only.’ If something on one of Gertrude’s tapes connects to one of those files, you wouldn’t be able to requisition it, but we can. A-and we have a bit more time than you do. In theory.” Mentally, he crosses his fingers. Jon Prime hadn’t coached him on this, which he gets. It has to sound natural.

“Hmm.” Basira looks skeptical, but nods. “All right. I can’t promise it’ll be that often, or that many. I mean, I _will_ have to smuggle them out of police custody, and that won’t be easy. But I’ll see what I can do.”

Jon exhales. “Thank you. And I will keep in touch with you with what we find.”

Basira studies him sharply. “How do you expect to get your assistants to help you without knowing where these statements come from?”

“Do you think my assistants read every statement I have them research?” Jon retorts. They do, but Basira doesn’t need to know that. “All I have to do is give them a name or a date and see what they come up with. I generally do the recordings of these statements myself, in privacy. They’ll never have to hear.”

Basira doesn’t respond for a moment. Jon tries to look innocent. At last, she sighs. “Fine. Obviously I can’t guarantee they’ll be relevant to the case, but we’ll see. I’ll be in touch, Sims.”

“Thank you,” Jon repeats. “Ah, let me walk you to the door.”

“Think I can find it for myself, thanks.” Basira backs out of his office and slams the door.

Jon gives her to the count of thirty to actually leave, then emerges from his office to find his assistants studiously pretending they’re ignoring him, while all sitting tensely. He looks around, then comes over to the cluster of desks and sits on the edge of Martin’s. “All set. She’ll bring us tapes when she can.”

“Brilliant.” Sasha claps her hands together. “It’ll be fascinating to see what she thinks might be relevant to the murder.”

Martin looks up at Jon a bit anxiously. “You don’t think she’s…suspicious, do you?”

“Oh, no, she’s plenty suspicious,” Jon assures him. “I was watching her face, as best I could anyway. She definitely thinks I killed Gertrude. But if you’re asking if she suspects why I really want those tapes, no.”

“I mean, you’d have to be pretty in on what really goes on around here to know that,” Tim points out. “But seriously, why would anyone think _you_ killed Gertrude Robinson?”

“Because I’m ‘jumpy as hell’, obsessed with the murder, and the only person who visibly benefited from her death,” Jon recites.

“Okay, rephrase: Why would anyone think you were _capable_ of killing Gertrude Robinson? You don’t look like you’ve got the upper body strength to kill a spider.”

Jon leans on Tim’s desk, drops his head, and hits him with the most menacing stare he can come up with. In a low voice, he says, “You have no idea what I am capable of, Timothy Stoker.”

Tim yelps and almost tips backwards out of his chair. Sasha and Martin both burst into giggles, and Jon straightens up, laughing as well.

He scrapes a hand through his hair, which is starting to grow out a bit. God, it feels good to be able to be _himself_ again, to stop being afraid that his team won’t take him seriously if he’s not professional at all times. There’s an almost palpable air of relief in the Archives, and he can see its effects in the others as well. It’s like they’re on more of an equal footing. They’ve found common ground and begun to build on it, and they’ve drawn closer together, even Jon.

It’s only taken them close to a year, but they’ve done it.

“Oh, Martin,” Jon adds when they’ve all calmed down a bit. “Can you add a note to the file for case number—damn, I’ve forgotten the number. Ms. Saraki’s, the one where we first heard the phrase ‘the lightless flame’.”

“0121102,” Martin replies immediately. Of course he has all the case numbers memorized. “What am I adding?”

“A name. Our mystery burn victim’s name is Diego Molina.” Jon adjusts his glasses. “Apparently Basira had a run-in with him a few months before that incident. Her first Section Thirty-One.”

Martin nods and gets up to fetch the file. Sasha cracks her knuckles. “Need me to look into anything else from her statement?”

“No,” Jon says, reluctantly. “There’s not much we can do that hasn’t already been done—not without exposing her. I did promise we’d keep everything confidential.” He glances up the stairs. “I don’t know how much additional research we can do into the tapes she brings us from Gertrude, but we’ll see. Just…don’t let on that you know what she’s here for when she does come back.”

“You’re sure she will actually come back, then?” Tim’s expression goes serious. “That she’s not just…saying she’ll bring you the tapes?”

Jon shakes his head. “No, I think she really will. I suppose we’ll just have to wait and find out, though.”

“Right.” Tim sighs. “What do you want us to do while we wait?”

“Keep digging into Ms. Sloane’s statement. Carefully,” Jon adds, since they’ve already told him the _Tundra_ is registered to Nathaniel Lukas. “I don’t want Elias coming down here and nagging at us about it…honestly, if I can keep him out of here for good, so much the better. I’ve got a bit of paperwork to catch up on.”

“Right-o.”

Jon retreats to his office and rewinds the tape, then plays it back. He’s struck again by the calm, near-emotionless way Basira describes her experiences. _Give us the facts, ma’am._ The line from that dry, somewhat cheesy old American detective show he used to watch with his cousin some nights comes back to him.

As the tape spools out, he thinks about his cousin, the summer and autumn he spent in New Mexico. He only intended to be there for a few weeks, but he had also nearly had a nervous breakdown in his last few months of school and needed the rest. His cousin provided exactly what he needed—a change of scenery, air to breathe, and a complete lack of pressure. Mostly he left Jon to his own devices while he worked, but occasionally he asked if Jon wanted to come with him for some field research, and occasionally Jon said yes.

One trip in particular stands out in his memory. There was a dry gulch, a crevice in the earth wide enough to walk through, and two families of some sort of desert animal living a few meters away from one another at its bottom. They were the same species, roughly the same numbers in each, more or less the same age; the only difference, his cousin explained, was that one set had lived there as long as he could remember and the other had been relocated by a rescue group just that summer after they were discovered beneath a new construction site. Rain was called for that day, and the purpose of their observation was to see if the two families reacted the same way to the change in weather.

Jon hadn’t known until the rain started that New Mexico has what residents call “monsoon season”, where sudden heavy downpours are common. Or that flash floods can overtake even the shallowest of ditches in a matter of seconds. He remembers seeing the water start to come down the formerly dry ravine, remembers realizing that it would go straight into the creatures’ holes. Remembers seeing one group of sodden, bedraggled animals scramble to safety just before the waters came and no movement from the other. His cousin’s face was tight with emotion, but still he hunched in his tarp-and-canvas shelter, peering down and scribbling notes. Jon watched, too, unable to do anything as the water came rushing forward. Wanting to interfere, but at the same time wondering what would happen if he didn’t.

That’s what the dreams feel like, he realizes. Like a damned _science experiment,_ one he can’t interfere with because it will compromise the integrity of the results. He should hate it. He _does_ hate it, but at the same time, he can almost hear his cousin’s voice from when they talked about it over their grandmother’s _chilindron_ : _That’s how science is sometimes, Jonny. They would have died even if we weren’t there to watch. At least this way, we can make their deaths mean something._

Is that how it works? Do the nightmares make the fear mean something? Is it possible that, by taking their fear and feeding it to the Ceaseless Watcher, Jon is distancing these people from the entities trying to claim them? Is he saving them, just a little?

It’s a question Jon isn’t sure there’s an answer to. Or that he necessarily wants to answer.

He dictates his follow-up comments into the recorder, then shuts it off and sits back with a wince. He’s tired, for it being a Monday morning, and he’s not completely sure why. It’s happened before, though, when he tries to take statements. Especially after he sat through everyone’s statements about Jane Prentiss’ attack and—

Oh.

Jon suddenly feels the need to talk to the Primes. He’s still tired, but he needs to do it. There are questions he should really have asked over the last eight weeks that he hasn’t, and he’s hoping they can answer him. Also, it won’t hurt if Elias thinks he’s wandering about in the tunnels looking for clues.

He fishes a torch and the key to the tunnels—which he stole from Elias weeks ago and hasn’t worked up the nerve to use yet—out of a desk drawer, then stands up and comes out into the Archives proper.

Tim and Sasha are both gone, which tells Jon it’s probably close to lunchtime, but Martin is still there, eyes going back and forth from his laptop screen to the file spread out across his desk. He looks up and offers Jon a warm smile when Jon approaches. “Oh, hi, Jon. I was just doing the background checks for this statement.”

“Is this a real one?” Jon means to say _difficult,_ but he’s tired, and anyway, it’s not like he wouldn’t have started believing after the whole mess with Jane Prentiss anyway.

“Don’t think so,” Martin admits. “It doesn’t feel right. But I’m trying to do the research anyway.”

“No, I appreciate that, thank you.” Jon smiles, then holds up the torch and the key. “Ah, since we’re not…busy at the moment…I thought I’d take a chance to, to poke around in the tunnels. If I’m not back up in an hour…”

“Panic?” Martin suggests.

Jon can’t help the small laugh that escapes him. “I suppose that’s as valid an option as any.”

Martin smiles, too. “Do you have something to mark the walls with?”

“I—no, I’m afraid not. I’ll have to…deal with that.”

Martin holds up a finger, then pulls open one of the drawers on his desk. His fingers close around something, and he looks a little hesitant, but then he pulls whatever it is out and hands it to Jon. “Here. Better than nothing, right?”

Jon is about to ask why Martin has chalk in his desk, assuming that’s what it is, but then he actually takes the object from him and does a double-take. It’s a tube of Boots No.7 lipstick.

Jon has several questions, chief among them how he never managed to notice Martin wearing this, but Martin is blushing so hard Jon decides not to ask. Maybe he’ll ask Martin Prime. “Thank you. I’ll…I owe you another tube. Even if I don’t use all of it, I doubt you’ll want it back.”

Martin laughs, a bit awkwardly. “It’s fine. Hope it shows up.”

“I’ll be back in an hour,” Jon promises. He takes the key and heads over to the trapdoor.

It takes a moment of fumbling before he figures out how to expose the lock, flips the handle up, and unlocks the trapdoor. It opens silently—he hasn’t been expecting that—and lets out a rush of cool, stagnant air. The opening is utterly black, the stairs steep. It smells faintly of decay.

Alone of the Archival staff, Jon hasn’t been down into the tunnels, and for a moment, he’s deeply afraid. He almost backs out, or calls to Martin to come with him, but…no, Tim and Sasha aren’t here, if Jon and Martin are both down there then there’s nobody to know if they go missing. This is his responsibility, his burden. He can do this.

He turns on the torch, relieved when its light penetrates the gloom easily. The walls are rough grey stone; Martin’s lipstick ought to show up well. He hopes, anyway. Taking a deep breath, he descends the stairs, pulling the door shut behind him.

As he reaches the bottom step, he feels something odd—almost like a physical silence. He struggles to come up with what it feels like, and then, suddenly, a memory comes to him, the memory of dodging through stage hands and costumed extras in a crowded backstage and slipping out a door that ought to have been alarmed, never mind locked, of stepping from oppressive heat into blessed coolness, from bright lights into star-spangled skies, from constant chatter to sudden, blessed quiet. That’s what it feels like—as though he’s stepped away from the world. No, _cut himself off_ from the world. The surface seems so far away, all of a sudden.

Jon rallies himself and fishes out the tube of lipstick. It’s a dusky sort of red, but when he marks an arrow pointing up the stairs, it does at least show up. He takes a deep breath and ventures deeper into the tunnels.

It’s a good thing Martin gave him the lipstick to mark his path, because otherwise he would be lost before long. As varied and distinct as the passages are, the tunnels seem intended to confuse. Which, well, he supposes they are. Whatever Robert Smirke hid at the center of Millbank Prison—the Primes refused to tell them, only that that was where the confrontation with Peter Lukas had been—it seems sensible that the corridors want to protect it. Jon wants to call out to the Primes, but he’s afraid of what else might be lurking down there. And Martin’s right, the halls seem to just…swallow sound.

He dutifully marks the walls, an arrow pointing back in the direction he came, every time he comes to an intersection. Every time he finds a room with an open frame instead of a door, he looks in; every time he finds a door, he tries it. He begins making symbols: an X on doors that won’t open, an S on doors that open but reveal only blank stone behind them, a check mark on the few that open to reveal a room. Each time, he wonders if _this_ is the room where Tim and Sasha found Gertrude Robinson.

He has no idea how long he’s been wandering when he sees the first worm carcasses. There are…far too many of them for his peace of mind, and he almost retreats in disgust, but he has a _purpose_ for being down here and he can’t violate that. Gingerly, he crosses the line, half-expecting the worms to come back to life…but no, they stay dead. He tries to avoid stepping on them, going slowly and cautiously, but he accidentally treads on a small pile of them. They crunch under his feet like dry autumn leaves, and the sound—oddly—echoes in the otherwise muted halls.

Jon freezes. He swears he can hear movement from up ahead. He knows it’s the Primes—probably—but he also knows it could be something else. It could be Jurgen Leitner. It could be something else entirely. Jon swallows hard and tries twice before he’s able to call out. “Who’s there?”

There’s a short pause, and then a faint voice calls back, “Jon?”

It’s Martin’s voice. Jon swings the torch towards it, and the beam flashes off a pair of glasses. “Oh,” he gasps. “It is you.”

“It’s us,” Martin Prime assures him. He reaches behind him, and a moment later, Jon Prime steps up beside him. “Come to explore, have you?”

“I, ah—sort of?” Jon tries to get his heart rate under control and lowers the beam to point at their feet. “You’re not staying back here, are you?”

“No,” Jon Prime assures him. “We were just doing a bit of investigation, I suppose. Martin’s better at navigating down here than I am.”

“Well, I’m already blind, it’s not like it can throw me off all that much,” Martin says with a shrug. “It’s just counting steps. Come on, we’ve got our camp set up back this way.”

“Just a moment.” Jon pulls out the tube of lipstick and draws a line on the wall next to where he’s standing, then after a moment’s thought adds the date. Just so he knows how far he’s come. “Right, let’s go.”

Jon Prime raises an eyebrow. “Is that…lipstick?”

“Ah, yes. I told Martin I was coming down here, and he was…concerned I might get lost, so he pulled this out of his desk and gave it to me to mark the walls.”

Jon Prime turns to Martin Prime in obvious astonishment. “Why on earth did you have _lipstick_ in your desk drawer?”

“My lips used to get really badly cracked sometimes. Lipstick covered it up. Just an old habit, really. I don’t— _didn’t_ wear it often.” Martin Prime shrugs. “I was always kind of surprised you never noticed, actually.”

“Yes, well, I think I spent most of the first couple years we worked together trying to _avoid_ looking at your lips for fear of making an absolute tit of myself,” Jon Prime drawls. Martin Prime laughs.

Jon follows them along several corridors. He remembers to mark his direction with an arrow when they veer off the halls he’s already marked out. At last, they wind up in a small chamber, sealed with a wooden door. Inside, the Primes have set up a rather comfortable-looking nest in one corner and an area clearly designed for eating in another.

“So,” Jon Prime says, indicating a patch of the floor for Jon to take a seat. “What brings you down to the tunnels?”

Jon sits down and waits for the Primes to do the same. “I…well, part of it is I wanted to see how close you were to the steps. Not very, by the way. I’m…not altogether sure how long I’ve been down here, actually.”

“We’ll follow you back when you go and recamp somewhere closer,” Jon Prime promises. “No sense in having you all get lost every time you come looking. But what else?”

Jon hesitates. “I just…I have some questions I probably should have asked sooner. And I suddenly felt the need to ask them.”

“Ask away.” Jon Prime nestles against Martin Prime and closes his eyes. “I’m listening.”

“Is it…normal to feel tired after taking a statement?”

“Yes,” Jon Prime replies. “At least for you, at least for now. The statements take their toll. The more…comfortable with them you get, the more you’ll be able to do, but for now, one real statement a week is going to be about as much as you can safely handle without hurting yourself. It’s why you were so tired, slept so heavily, after taking your team’s statements. You essentially took three statements in a row. And then the next day you sat in on Martin’s statement…that’s honestly probably part of the reason you reacted so badly to it. Your system was overloaded. My being there…mitigated some of it, but not quite enough.”

“What if I don’t want to get comfortable with them?” Jon asks quietly.

Jon Prime sighs heavily, but doesn’t open his eyes. Martin Prime brushes a lock of his hair back behind his ear. “I mean…you can stop. Probably. At this point, you might not be in too deep, so you might be able to stop. It was, what, another year before you started noticing you couldn’t go long without a statement?”

“Before I noticed. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t happening before,” Jon Prime says softly. “After all, even after I got framed”—he raises his voice slightly—“for _Jurgen Leitner’s murder”_ —then continues in a normal tone—“Elias was still doling out statements to me. The longest I went without recording one was when I was recovering from Jane Prentiss’ attack, and I’m still not altogether sure that the reason I felt compelled to come back so quickly wasn’t because I needed the statements.”

“But I haven’t been recording them,” Jon points out. “I’ve been giving them to you to record.”

“You’ve still been reading them. I don’t know if that’s enough to count. But I can sense that you took a statement today, didn’t you?”

Jon sighs. “Basira finally came by. You were right. I, ah, I managed to convince her to give us the tapes, but…” He swallows. “That’s when I noticed I was tired. I, I listened to the tape again, after I talked to the team, and I was just…tired.”

“Listening to it twice will do that. Especially right on top of one another like that. It’s a bit like breathing recycled air.” Jon Prime opens his eyes. “Like being down here, really.”

Jon tenses. “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t feel that sensation when you came down the steps? That almost…weighted silence, like an absence of sound? The Eye can’t penetrate down here. It means Jonah can’t see down here, but it also means that anything coming from it is…muffled.”

“No, I—I did notice. That was the Eye?”

“Yes. That was you being separated from it. It’s not hurting you right now because you _aren’t_ as deeply connected as—as all that, but…”

Jon gets it, all of a sudden. Horror runs through him. “You can’t stay down here. It’s literally killing you.”

“It’s not,” Jon Prime assures him, though he sounds tired. “I’m not as…strong as I would be if I wasn’t down here, that’s true, but trust me when I say this is still the best option.”

“So…what, you’re going to just—just sit down here and let your energy drain away? Like some kind of _punishment?_ ” Jon knows himself well enough to know that’s _exactly_ what Jon Prime is doing, and it’s a lot easier to call himself out when his self is literally another person.

Martin Prime snorts. “I’ve been telling him that for the last day.”

Jon Prime sighs heavily. “Fine. I admit there’s a part of me that feels like I…deserve this, somehow. But no. If we can get closer to the steps…well, we can come up after dark. Once the Institute is closed. Just sitting in the Archives for a few hours ought to be enough to—” He flounders for a moment.

“Recharge your batteries?” Martin Prime suggests.

“Essentially, yes. It’s not as bad as it could be.”

Jon wants to argue, but he’s pretty sure he’ll lose if he does. “F-fine. Fine. I…if you’re sure.”

“I am.” Jon Prime closes his eyes again. “You had more questions? Or was that it?”

Jon plays with the torch and tries to decide if he really wants to ask any of his other questions. Finally, he asks, “Should I have…told Basira what giving me a statement would mean?”

“No,” Jon Prime answers immediately. “She wouldn’t have believed you. Not without proof, anyway. She’s—it’s just how she is. Always has been. She has to pick everything apart, see it through to the logical conclusion. And I don’t think she’ll ever mention to you that she has the nightmares. I only found out she’d ever had them because of a passing comment she made to Daisy on a tape once, about how she hadn’t had any since joining the Institute. I—I didn’t realize what they were, not then.”

“God. Elias really didn’t tell you anything, did he?”

“It was in his best interest to keep me—us—ignorant. Because if I knew too soon what was going on, I’d be able to stop him.”

“Like we’re going to.”

Jon Prime smiles. “Exactly.”

“Basira being…getting trapped here…that’s not inevitable, is it?”

“No.” Surprisingly, it’s Martin Prime who answers. “Melanie either. We should be able to avoid both those scenarios. I don’t think she’ll stay with the police, though. _That_ feels inevitable.”

Jon Prime nods slowly. “ _That_ much you ought to be able to warn her about. It didn’t do much good when our Tim tried to warn her, as I recall, but at the same time, that was…a very different situation altogether. Hopefully, we’ll be able to keep things from trending in that direction.”

Jon nods as well. They sit in silence for a few moments. The silence feels even more oppressive than before, now that Jon knows what it means—now that he knows they’re cut off from their master. Patron. Overlord. Whatever in God’s name it is.

“What do you call it?” he blurts out. Jon Prime opens his eyes and blinks at him and Martin Prime tilts his head to one side, his brows knitting, so he clarifies, “The Eye. Is it…is it your master or your patron or…”

“It’s a bloody great nuisance is what it is,” Martin Prime mutters.

Jon Prime smiles. “In truth, I don’t know. I suppose ‘patron’ is still the best word. I do have free will, after all. I _can_ refuse it. It’s…unpleasant, sometimes, when I do, but I can refuse to do what it says and there’s precious little it can do about it. The Eye doesn’t control me, but…oh, I don’t know. It grants me powers, abilities, and all it asks in return is that I feed it. Which, I suppose, is what I do. So to that extent, yes, it’s…my patron. Honestly, I don’t like thinking about it as _my_ anything.”

“Nobody else ever referred to it as ‘your’ anything, either,” Martin Prime muses. “Except Elias, I guess. Most people just referred to you in relation to the Eye, not the other way around.”

“Mmm.” Jon Prime looks up at Martin Prime. “What was it Melanie called me? ‘The Ceaseless Watcher’s special little boy’?”

“Also ‘Snoop God’s favorite kid’,” Martin Prime says, his lips twitching upwards in a smile.

Jon Prime laughs and closes his eyes again. “You don’t have to call it ‘your’ anything, Jon. Not if you don’t want to. You still belong to yourself. Just…hold onto that.”

Jon swallows. “I’ll try.”

“Hey, don’t go to sleep on me,” Martin Prime says, a gentle note of teasing in his voice but also an undercurrent of worry. “I’m not carrying you _and_ all our supplies to wherever we’re moving to.”

“I’m not falling asleep,” Jon Prime claims. “Just resting my eyes.” He sighs, then admits, “We got too far from…everything. I’m afraid it took a bit more out of me than I expected.”

“I’ll bring you some statements later,” Jon promises. “Or get Tim to leave them on his desk or something. There are a few he was trying to get me to re-record. I don’t know if they’ll be any good, but…”

“It’s better than nothing. Thank you.”

Jon watches the two of them for a moment. Something that’s been bothering him almost since the first day prods at him, and he knows he has to ask. “One last question?”

“Ask away.”

Jon looks from Jon Prime to Martin Prime and back. “When you…that first day, when we were talking. You kept calling me ‘Archivist’, and—and then _you_ said something about knowing why he was doing that. Why _were_ you doing that?”

Martin Prime stills. Evenly, he says, “Jon? Do you want to explain?”

“Not really.” Jon Prime sighs. “But I know you will if I don’t.”

“Damn right.”

Jon Prime takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. He actually sits up straighter, too, although he doesn’t pull away from Martin Prime’s arm. Jon suspects part of that is that Martin Prime wouldn’t _let_ him if he tried. “Even before I fully understood what I was, what I was involved in…every monster or—or avatar or whatever you want to call them I met called me ‘Archivist.’ There were only two who ever addressed me by my name, really, and one of them was Elias, but even _he_ called me ‘Archivist’ when he wasn’t concentrating. I—I suppose I felt, at least at first, that…well, if monsters are going to address you that way, I might as well do the same.”

“But you’re not a monster,” Jon protests. “Why would you class yourself that way?”

Martin Prime _harrumphs_ rather pointedly. Jon Prime avoids looking at him. “Some days it’s harder to remember that than others.”

“Which is what I’m here for,” Martin Prime says. “To _remind_ you.”

“Martin, you’re—” Jon Prime swallows hard, and he does look up at Martin Prime now. “You aren’t just reminding me that I’m human. You’re _keeping_ me human. I don’t want to put that on you, but…”

“You’re not telling me anything I haven’t known since the end of the world, Jon.” Martin Prime leans over to kiss Jon Prime’s forehead, but Jon Prime tilts his head back to meet his lips with his own. It’s soft and tender and brief, but Jon still has to look away.

After a moment, Jon Prime sighs. “Anyway, that’s…that’s what that was all about. It’s a very bad habit for me to get myself into and Martin was right to call me on it.”

“So, basically, I can assume anyone who addresses me as ‘Archivist’ likely means me harm?” Jon asks.

“I think that’s a fair assessment, yes.”

Jon swallows. “I’ll keep that in mind. That, ah, that was it, really. I just—I needed to talk to you. And, well, I thought it would help if Elias thought I was…exploring.”

“Probably,” Jon Prime agrees. He unfolds his legs from underneath him. “Give us a moment to get packed up and we’ll follow you.”

Martin Prime gets to his feet and holds out a hand; Jon Prime takes it and lets him lever him to his feet. In a surprisingly short amount of time, they’ve got everything stowed and ready to go. Martin Prime takes Jon Prime’s arm on one side and hefts his cane in the other. “After you, then.”

Jon leads them back along the halls, following his arrows in reverse. As they go, he explains his logic, both about the direction of the arrows and the marks on the doors. Jon Prime seems impressed with the latter. “I—do you know, I never thought to do that when I was exploring these tunnels myself?”

“Would it have made much of a difference?” Martin Prime asks. “I mean, you told me Leitner was…moving the passages around a bit to keep you contained.”

“True, but he wasn’t trying to mess with my mind, not really. I don’t think he ever changed anything I had already explored.” Jon Prime sighs. “Although I don’t know that it would have mattered to me exactly. My only concern with the rooms was which one Gertrude Robinson might have been in.”

“I was wondering that myself,” Jon confesses. “I don’t suppose you remember? I-I mean, since you found her the—the first time.”

“No,” Martin Prime says. “I was lost, and also panicking. I didn’t know where Jon and Tim were, or if they were okay, and I was definitely not handling that well. Finding a dead body didn’t help. I’m lucky I found my way out at all. If I had to guess, I’d say she was in the room nearest where the worms stopped, though.”

Jon almost trips over his own feet. “What makes you say that?”

“Just a hunch, but I always wondered what made the cleaning crew Elias hired decide to stop _there._ It just seemed…arbitrary? I figured the only two options were that they were on a time limit and that was as far as they got before their time ran out, or they went as far as they needed to. If they were cleaning ahead of the police, or _behind_ the police, well, that would make sense, right? Gertrude Robinson’s body was found, no need for the police to go further. And if the cleaning crew didn’t see any reason for the rest of us to be down there, which they wouldn’t have, why would they bother cleaning any further out than that?”

“That’s…actually brilliant,” Jon Prime admits.

“Don’t sound so shocked.”

“I’m not. How often did you come down here?”

“Not counting the times we came down for nefarious plotting purposes? Three times.”

Jon sweeps his torch up to check an arrow. “I can’t imagine why you’d want to.”

“The first time, I was trying to show the cops where I’d found Gertrude’s body,” Martin Prime replies. “They wouldn’t accept ‘I literally have no clue’ as an answer, but after about an hour and about a half-dozen burst worm carcasses, they gave it up and said they’d come back on their own with proper equipment. I kind of wondered, later, if they thought I was deliberately trying to mislead them because I’d killed her, but I don’t think I was ever seriously marked out as an official suspect. The second time I came down looking for Jon.”

“You did?” Jon Prime sounds startled. “I don’t remember that.”

“I’m not surprised. You were pretty out of it when I found you. I had no clue how long you’d been down here, but when you weren’t at your desk by the time the rest of us got in, I knew something was up. I thought you might’ve got lost or something, so I dug out my torch and went after you. Found you in one of the rooms without a door, barely conscious and…” Martin Prime trails off. “Like I said, you were pretty out of it. At the time, I figured you were just…hungry or dehydrated or something. Sleep-deprived, maybe. I ended up having to carry you most of the way. Couldn’t get up the steps that way, though, but you were…starting to do better by then. A little, anyway. I made you go lie down in the storage room and spent the rest of the day making excuses to anyone who asked.” He pauses, then adds, “And before you ask why I never said anything, you were already so paranoid and…I just didn’t want to make things worse between us than they already were by telling you I’d seen you like that. I didn’t know how much you’d remember and I didn’t want to embarrass you. Figured I’d let you take the lead on that.”

“I’m not sure I would have minded,” Jon Prime says softly. “Then again, I’m also not sure I wouldn’t have been even more suspicious of you if I’d known you were down in the tunnels, too. What was the third time?”

“That same night. I didn’t want to leave you alone while you were sleeping, so I stuck around, but…I realized you’d had a kit with you and I hadn’t grabbed it before I came out, so I went back for it. Did some exploring while I was at it. Followed your arrows—at least, I assumed they were your arrows—just to see how far you’d got.”

Jon glances over his shoulder at Jon Prime. “You’re lucky to have him, you know.”

Jon Prime’s smile is visible even in the black. “I know.”

They’re just getting to the stretch of the tunnels where most of the doors are when Martin Prime pauses. “Do you hear something?”

Jon doesn’t, actually, but he clicks off his torch and closes his eyes. While he knows the whole thing about people losing one sense having their other senses strengthened is largely malarkey, he also knows it’s easier to focus on a single sense when the input from the other senses is minimized as much as possible. Sure enough, he can faintly hear movement. He flattens against the wall, his heart pounding suddenly, praying the other two have the sense to do the same. And then he hears…voices?

“Jon? Jon, can you hear us?”

“ _Jon!_ Answer us, damn it!”

An involuntary gasp escapes Jon’s lips as he realizes who the voices are. He turns the torch back on and aims it towards the next intersection, letting it play against the wall. “Martin? Tim?”

“Jon! Hang on, we’re coming—”

“Did you tell anyone you were coming down here?” Jon Prime asks in a low voice.

Jon glances over his shoulder and favors Jon Prime with a glare. “Of course. I’m not an _idiot._ ”

Before Jon Prime or Martin Prime can respond to that with the derision it probably deserves, a torch beam crosses Jon’s, and he lowers the torch to the ground just as Martin and Tim charge around the corner. They don’t slow down, either; both of them bull right up to him and envelop him in a tight hug that drives the air from his lungs for a moment. He’s momentarily stunned before he hugs them back.

“ _Christ,_ Jon, you scared the hell out of us,” Tim grinds out into his hair.

“I told you where I was,” Jon protests, his words slightly muffled from being pressed into someone’s shoulder, he’s not actually sure which one, and also slightly choked.

“You also said you’d be back in an hour,” Martin scolds. He does ease up the hug, a little bit, but not much. “It’s been almost three.”

Jon feels the color drain out of his face. “ _What?_ ”

“We’d have come after you sooner, but Elias came down and we had to do some fast talking,” Tim tells him. He pulls back enough to study Jon anxiously. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m fine, I was just—it took me a while to find—them.” Jon jerks his head back over his shoulder. “I had some questions, a-and I thought—I was helping them find someplace to set up camp closer to the entrance into the Archives.”

“You didn’t tell us you were on a time limit,” Martin Prime says, a hint of reproach in his voice.

“I honestly didn’t think it took me as long as it did,” Jon says. He refocuses on Tim. “What did Elias want?”

“Just to know where you were. Something about you not answering your phone and a meeting about the budget, which is _clearly_ bullshit, since he always does the budgeting on Tuesdays.” Tim snorts. “I told him the last time I’d seen you was before I left for lunch, which was true. And Martin told him you’d been agitated after talking to Basira and that he thought you might’ve gone on a walk to clear your head, which was obviously a lie, but weirdly, I think he bought it. At least he pretended to.”

“He probably bought it, actually,” Jon Prime says. “Or at least bought that you believed it. I’m sure he knows your Jon came down here. All he wanted to confirm was that the rest of you _didn’t_ know he was down here. The idea of you poking around down here probably delights him.”

“I thought that, too,” Jon says with a sigh. “Right, how far are we from the steps?”

“Not very. Like two turns and a straight shot,” Martin replies. “We figured you weren’t behind any of the doors you’d marked.”

“We’ll settle ourselves,” Jon Prime assures Jon. “You’ve told us how you marked the doors. Either come find us before you leave or…well, just leave out those statements you need redone. I’ll get them tonight. You three best get out of here before Elias notices you’re missing. I don’t think he pays that much attention to you—yet—but if he can’t sense all _three_ of you…”

“Right. Right.” Jon takes a deep breath. “Thank you.”

“Thank _you._ Take care, you three.”

Tim links his arm with Jon on one side; Martin takes his other arm. Jon’s surprised but not displeased, and he lets them escort him up the steps and back into the Archives.


	22. Sasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha comes up with a possible way to keep Jon from getting lost to the statements.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Half-Price Chocolate Day, friends! :) Hope you're having a good week so far.
> 
> I am excited to tell anyone who hasn't seen it yet that there is now fanart for this fic! The amazing [nazgulofapocalypse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nazgulofapocalypse/pseuds/nazgulofapocalypse) did [this gorgeous art of Chapter 20](https://eraniss.tumblr.com/post/642984643511107584/inspired-by-the-amazing-fanfic-leaves-too-high-to) and managed to basically pluck it _directly_ from my head. Go give them all the love they deserve! (Seriously, this made my whole weekend.)

Basira brings the first tape before the week is out, and Sasha is apparently the only one surprised that Jon doesn’t seem happier about it. As a matter of fact, he seems downright distressed.

The assistants normally stagger their lunch breaks so there are at least two people in the Archives at any given time, something they’ve done almost since the beginning, but Jon comes out of his office and suggests all three of them go together, and Tim and Martin hustle Sasha out before she can ask questions. It’s Tim who points out, _sotto voce_ while they’re standing in line at the cafe, that Basira probably called to say she was dropping by and Jon wants them out of there to preserve the fiction that he’s not telling them what’s going on. Sure enough, they pretend to ignore Basira in the parking lot on their way back to the Archives and re-enter to find Jon sitting on the edge of Tim’s desk, turning a tape over and over in his hands.

“That was quick,” Martin comments. “Thought it’d be harder for her to get them to you.”

“I did, too. I wasn’t—anticipating anything before next week at the earliest. And since I don’t know how soon she’ll be back with another one—or come back for this one, for that matter—I kind of have to listen to it as soon as possible.” Jon looks up at them with a pained expression.

Sasha frowns. “Am I missing something? Why’s that a bad thing?”

“Because I don’t…the real statements take a lot out of me. Live ones are worse. According to the Primes, doing more than one a week is going to be a drain. At least until I…build up my tolerance, I guess.” Jon sighs. “Which I’m not altogether sure I want to do.”

“We could record any real statements you get for you,” Sasha offers. “Then you can just listen to the tapes.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you all,” Jon says, looking shocked. “I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.”

“Yeah, but you’re the Head Archivist. Why would it affect us like that?”

“It’s the statements, not the position,” Martin says. “Each one is a thread that binds you closer to the Eye. Regardless of who takes it.” When they all stare at him, he blushes and adds, “I talked about it with Martin Prime while I was recovering. He told me he read more than a few statements over the last year and a half he was at the Institute.”

Jon rubs his forehead. “All the more reason I should keep doing this. I just…I don’t want to lose myself, either.”

Tim hesitantly reaches out and puts a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “You won’t. I mean, Jon Prime hasn’t lost himself, has he?”

“Only because he has Martin Prime to keep him grounded.”

“Well, you’ve got us.”

Jon smiles, but says, “I don’t want to put the burden of my humanity on you.”

Martin tilts his head. “Even if we offer?”

“Even then. I just…it’s not fair to you.” Jon sighs, obviously frustrated. “And I’m _curious._ There’s no denying that. Especially about…this. Gertrude actually seems to have labeled it properly. And—well, I only met her once or twice, and I-I was very new at the time.” He looks at the three of them. “Did any of you?”

Tim shakes his head. “Apparently I’d remember if I did,” he says, shooting a look at Sasha.

Sasha shrugs. “You would. We talked a fair amount. She—she said I ought to apply for the position of Archivist if it ever came up vacant.”

Jon flinches, but doesn’t say anything. Martin swallows. “I think she avoided me, actually. Never could figure out why, but any time she sent up to the library for something, Diana made a point of sending anyone _but_ me with it. Which was weird, since usually she took any excuse to get me out of the way for a few minutes.”

Tim drapes an arm over Martin’s shoulders. Jon looks embarrassed, but stares at the tape in his hands. “I suppose I’d just like any insight to her time here. And, well, even with—” He glances up at the ceiling. “Even with what we know, there’s so much we don’t. And I understand that, there are some things we need to discover on our own, and other things we won’t believe until we have proof. Still.” He sighs. “And on top of that, I find myself wondering if the Eye is going to have any influence over the tapes Basira brings or if it’s going to be random.”

“What’s this one?” Sasha asks.

Instead of answering, Jon hands her the tape. Sasha peers at the label—a case number, a name, and the words _Algasovo, central Russia._ “Well, I doubt Basira picked it at anything but random if she wasn’t being influenced somehow.”

She passes the tape over to Tim and Martin, who study it before handing it back to Jon. “Does that mean anything to you? Algasovo?”

“No. I’m not sure it means anything to Basira, either.”

“Hang on.” Sasha sits at her desk and flips open her laptop. A few keystrokes later and all four of them are peering over her shoulder at a list of search results. All of them are generic, or else written in Russian—basic information about the town, the weather, and the surrounding area. “It’s a nothing village in the middle of nowhere. But Gertrude obviously thought this was important enough to put on tape.”

Martin nods. “And if it’s something we need to know about…”

“I suppose I’ll have to listen to it,” Jon says with a sigh. He stares at the tape again, and there’s something in his eyes Sasha recognizes—something hungry. He _wants_ to listen to it. But there’s also something in his eyes that she sees reflected in Martin and Tim’s—fear. He’s afraid of what he’ll become as much as he desperately wants, _needs_ to know.

She thinks about what Martin said, about how the statements will affect all of them no matter who reads them. She thinks about Martin Prime quietly telling Jon Prime that _you being here might help him._ She thinks about all of them listening to everybody’s statements all at once and not getting half so wiped as Jon looked on Monday when Basira left after making her statement.

“What if we listen together?” she blurts.

Jon looks up, obviously startled. “What?”

Sasha taps a fingernail on her desk. It’s getting ragged, she really needs to make an appointment for a manicure—maybe this weekend, she thinks. “If it’s going to affect anyone who records it, or reads it or listens to it or whatever…there’s probably a finite amount of energy to it, right? It’s not like we’ll all absorb the full amount of fear, it’ll most likely be more…it’ll get siphoned out and divided between the four of us. If we all listen to this tape together, maybe we can stop you from becoming…like that. Or at least slow it down. Maybe it won’t take so much energy from you.”

Jon hesitates and looks at Tim and Martin. Tim shrugs. “Worth a shot.”

“I’m up for it if you’re willing,” Martin agrees.

Jon swallows, then nods. “All right. Let me go get the tape recorder.”

Martin blinks. “What, you want to do it here? In the open?”

“I don’t believe there’s any point in hiding in my office to do it. Or Document Storage or whatever. Nobody’s likely to come down and interrupt us. It—it should be fine.” Jon leaves the tape on the desk and heads into his office.

“I’ll make us some tea. We’ll probably need it.” Martin fishes four mugs out of his desk drawer and disappears in the direction of the break room.

Sasha watches him go. “We really ought to just set up a tea station here in the Archives. Save wear and tear on the carpets.”

“I know you’re being sarcastic, but that’s not half a bad idea,” Tim says. “Bet Jon would agree.”

“Agree to what?” Jon comes over with the tape recorder in hand. “Where’s Martin?”

“Getting tea. Sasha suggested setting up a tea station here.”

Jon pauses. “Actually, why haven’t we done that before now?”

Tim’s right—Sasha _was_ being sarcastic, but she enters into the discussion anyway and they’ve got a list of things to pick up after work almost fully written by the time Martin returns with the same cups he always uses for them. They rope Martin into the discussion, since he’s the one who knows the tea procedure inside and out, and they’re all a lot more relaxed by the time they settle down to listen to the tape.

Sasha’s attention is immediately piqued by the statement. Gertrude’s familiar dry, reedy voice sounds much more intense than she remembers from their conversations. It’s obvious the statement is real—it comes across in the texture of Gertrude’s voice—but she reads it calmly, no hesitation or upset. Something about the scenario draws Sasha in as much as it frightens her. Maybe it’s knowing that it killed her in the Primes’ timeline, or maybe it’s just that it’s the antithesis of the entity she’s essentially bound to, but the Stranger scares her the most out of all the entities. It fascinates her, too, which she supposes isn’t the greatest sign in the world, but too much of her mind is focused on the statement to really care.

At last, the statement ends. Gertrude gives a short summing-up that makes it clear, at least to Sasha, that she never intended for these tapes to be used by anyone outside the Institute, or indeed outside the Archives; her supplemental makes reference to things she obviously already knew and speculates in a limited sense about the nature of the younger brother of the statement-giver, and then the tape clicks off.

The scrape of a chair breaks the spell, and Sasha blinks up in time to see Martin, his face creased with empathy, wrap Tim in a hug. Tim doesn’t even bother to stand up from his chair, just clings to Martin like he’s drowning. Sasha can see the tears rolling down his face. _Shit._

“Tim?” Jon slides off the desk, looking a bit shaky, and puts a hand on Tim’s shoulder. Tim reaches out blindly and pulls Jon into the hug, too.

Guilt rises in Sasha’s throat. She should have guessed. Out of everyone in the room, she’s the only one who knows why Tim came to work for the Institute in the first place, and it really should have occurred to her as soon as Gertrude uttered the word _circus_ that this one would hit Tim hard. Add in the younger brother in peril and her dry comment about them being lucky to escape with _only significant mental trauma_ , and it’s no wonder he’s crying. But she was too wrapped up in the statement to even _think_ about him, let alone notice what Martin evidently picked up on immediately.

God, some best friend she is.

“Oh, Tim,” she whispers, penitent. She gets up from her seat and joins the group hug, hesitantly, not sure if she’s welcome. She doesn’t want to wedge herself in the middle of things, so she just squeezes Jon and Martin closer to Tim and prays that’s enough.

Someone is murmuring something, over and over, and it takes Sasha a second to realize that it’s _I’m sorry_ and a second longer to realize it’s Jon, apologizing repeatedly into Tim’s hair. Christ, _he’s_ starting to tear up, too, and he doesn’t even know why Tim’s so upset. Unless he’s figured out the whole mind-reading thing already. She doesn’t think so, though.

Finally, Tim takes a deep, shuddering breath and pulls back. The others ease off, with varying degrees of reluctance, and Martin fishes a tissue from somewhere on the desk and offers it silently. Tim takes it and wipes his face. “S-sorry,” he says hoarsely.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jon says, obviously trying to be brusque, but it’s as obvious a lie as when he was trying to be brusque with Martin the night of the attack. “You have nothing to apologize for. I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made you listen to that.”

“You couldn’t have known.” Tim closes his eyes and breathes deeply for a moment, then looks up. “My—I still owe you a statement, I think. Not today,” he adds quickly, evidently seeing the slight panic that crosses Jon’s face. “You can’t take that, and neither can I. Just…whenever you think you’re up to it. But—short version, I lost my brother to a Russian circus. It’s why I joined the Institute.”

Sasha actually knows precious few details beyond that—Tim may have told her the whole story, but they were both drunk at the time and she’s blurred out a lot, although she remembers the salient points. Jon looks stricken. “Tim, I—I didn’t know.”

“No reason you should have. I never told you.” Tim finishes off his tea in one long swallow, then pushes back from his desk. “I—I need some air.”

“Take your phone.” Jon’s voice is soft. “Call if you need us.”

“I will. I will.” Tim pockets his phone and heads out.

Jon watches him, then turns to the other two. He still looks shaken and visibly distressed. “Did you know?”

“I had no idea.” Martin touches his shoulder gently. “Jon, sit down. I’ll—I’ll get you another cup of tea.”

“Not right now. I’m fine.” Jon does sit, though, and he squeezes Martin’s hand briefly before looking up at Sasha. “Did you…?”

“He told me once,” Sasha admits. “I don’t remember most of the details, honestly, but I knew about Danny. I just didn’t make the connection while we were listening to the statement.”

Jon rubs a hand over his face. “I didn’t even notice—God, I was so focused on—I’d have stopped it if I’d known.”

“I don’t think you could have,” Martin tells him. “I—he started turning grey right after Gertrude mentioned the circus, and by the time they realized the brother was missing he was starting to hyperventilate. I wanted to tell you to stop the tape, o-or try to intervene, or _something,_ but I—until the tape stopped, I couldn’t _move._ It was like sitting there listening to Martin Prime rattle off that chamber of horrors all over again.” He sounds frustrated and upset. “Like I was bound there. I don’t get it. It’s not like I’ve never interrupted you doing a recording before.”

“Only once,” Jon says. “And you—” He freezes, suddenly stiffening, and looks back and forth from Martin to Sasha. “Oh, God. You’ve both interrupted me, but that’s the point, you came in in the _middle_ of the recording. You’ve never been there from the beginning.”

Sasha gets it, all of a sudden. “Because we were there from the start, we got caught in the—the threads of the statement. I wonder if anyone ever interrupted Jon Prime if they’d been there from the start?”

“I—I don’t know. I suppose I can ask.” Jon rubs his forehead again. “Not right now, though.”

“No, not right now,” Martin says firmly. He stands up from his desk and moves towards the shelves.

“What are you doing?” Jon asks.

“Getting Leanne Denikin’s case file,” Martin answers over his shoulder. “There’s just a couple things I want to look at.”

Sasha looks at Jon and shrugs. “While he’s doing that, let me see what I can pull up about our statement-giver. Gertrude said she recorded this in ‘97?”

“Y-yes,” Jon says, looking a bit shaken.

“That was almost twenty years ago. The Internet’s come a long way since then. Bet I can find things she could have only dreamed of.” Sasha cracks her knuckles and opens up her laptop again.

Jon raises an eyebrow at her. “Do you read Russian?”

“No, but there’s this nifty thing browsers do now where they’ll translate whole pages for you. It’s not perfect, but it’s good enough. Mostly.” Sasha offers Jon a cheeky grin. “More technology Gertrude didn’t have access to. And I have no idea if she read Russian.”

Jon’s eyes go slightly unfocused for a moment. “She didn’t. The Eye might have occasionally led her to read or understand a language she didn’t know, but only if doing so would give her the knowledge the Eye craved.” He closes his eyes and winces, shaking his head as if to clear it, and it’s only then Sasha feels the faint buzz of static receding. Before she can say anything, though, he adds, “The Roger Rabbit principle, I suppose.”

“The what?” Sasha and Martin, who’s just returning with a file in hand, say in unison.

“Did you ever see that old movie, _Who Framed Roger Rabbit?_ It’s a blend of animation and live action—it takes place in a world where cartoon characters are real people and live alongside actual humans, although they live in a-a suburb of Los Angeles, I suppose, called Toon Town. The eponymous Roger Rabbit gets accused of murdering a man and turns to a human detective for assistance. There’s a segment in the film where the detective—Eddie Valiant—and Roger are handcuffed together, and Eddie is attempting to cut the cuffs off, but the box he’s using is wobbling, so Roger slips his hand out of the cuff and steadies it. When Eddie realizes what he’s done, he demands to know if Roger could have done that at any time, and Roger replies, ‘Not at _any_ time. Only when it was funny.’”

“I think I get it,” Sasha says, glancing at Martin.

Martin nods. “You’re saying the Eye only lets the Archivist access languages otherwise unknown if it gets something out of it in return. Like extra fear.”

“Something like that.”

Martin sits down and drops two files on his desk. Sasha cocks her head. “What’s that second one?”

“Oh—since Gertrude listed the case number, I figured I’d see if I could find the paper file somewhere in the shelves.” Martin waves one of them at her. “It was in the back corner. I think it’s one of the ones Martin Prime said he was gathering, that he could sense were real.”

“What makes you say that?” Jon asks.

“You won’t like my answer.”

“Try me.”

Martin looks up at him. “The shelf was almost packed solid with cobwebs.”

Jon bites his lip. “You’re right. I don’t like that answer at all.”

Sasha tries to disguise her laugh as a cough as she goes back to her search.

She gets absorbed in the work—a totality of focus she’s only noticed a few times before—and is therefore caught off-guard when a mug of tea suddenly appears at her elbow. She looks up, startled, just in time to see Jon surprise Martin with his own mug. Sheepishly, Jon says, “I was starting to feel a bit useless, but I—I don’t know that I want to be alone in my office right now.”

“It’s fine. Thanks.” Martin offers Jon a warm smile, which Jon tentatively returns. Sasha wonders if they’re moving towards a romantic relationship. She also wonders how much faster they’re moving than the Primes did and if she’s going to have to shoot Tim before he uses the two of them being together as an excuse for why they should give it a go, even though she’s fairly certain he’s mostly joking about their “will they-won’t they” storyline.

“Either of you found anything yet?” Jon asks.

Sasha shakes her head. “Well, I was able to verify that Ivan Utkin did die in 1984, just like Gertrude said—it’s not that I doubted her necessarily, just that I wanted to be sure. That’s young, though. He was only forty-eight. His obituary doesn’t list cause of death, and, well, that was the height of the Cold War, so I’m not sure if the records exist anymore. I’ll keep trying, though. Yuri Utkin died in…” She swallows. “May of last year.”

“Around the time Gertrude Robinson died.”

“A bit after,” Sasha specifies. “The twenty-fifth.”

“Ah, the Glorious Twenty-Fifth of May,” Martin murmurs, not quite under his breath. When Sasha gives him a funny look, he adds, “Discworld reference.”

Jon shifts his attention to Martin. “Anything interesting in there?”

“It’s definitely the same circus. I mean, we knew that, Gertrude specifically called out Nikolai Denikin in her summing-up, but I’m guessing that the steam organ Utkin mentions in his statement is the one up in Artifact Storage, which…isn’t great.”

“No,” Jon agrees. Something suddenly seems to occur to him. “Sasha, how long have you been with the Magnus Institute?”

“Six years,” Sasha answers. She’s been in academia for ten years—well, eleven now—but the first few years after graduating she worked for the EPCC, until the project she was on shut down and she needed to come to London anyway. “Since August of 2010.”

Jon seems to deflate a bit. “So you weren’t here when the Calliophone came in.”

“No, but—Martin, you were here, weren’t you?”

Martin nods absently. “Yeah, I—kind of remember it getting delivered? Not surprised nobody can find the paperwork, though.”

Sasha looks over the top of her computer. “Why do you say that?”

Martin looks up, too. “There was some staff turnover in Artifact Storage about that time. There were a _lot_ of injuries over the month, and at least six people quit. Then the head at the time—um, Henry Winchester—died and…I heard it was kind of messy.”

Sasha’s interest is caught. “Messy how?”

“Christ, Sasha, I don’t know. It didn’t happen on Institute grounds, so it’s not like I _saw_ it. I just remember a couple people muttering about crime scene photos and peri- versus postmortem injuries and whether it was something that would end up in the Archives at some point.”

Sasha bites the inside of her cheek and stares at her computer for a second, wondering if she can dig up the police report and see what happened. Then she shakes her head slightly. It’s not relevant to anything they’re working on right now and she doesn’t need to be using Institute resources—including time—on personal projects.

“Actually, Sasha, do you think you can see what you can dig up on that?” Jon asks, and Sasha looks up sharply, wondering if he really _is_ reading her mind. “If it’s…if Henry Winchester’s death was ‘messy,’ it’s possible that whatever killed him was…well, whatever killed Leanne Denikin’s ex. And, ah, being able to connect the death of the previous department head to an artifact from one of our statements might give us a bit of clout wh—if we have to tell them to leave another artifact alone.”

“I’ve got to admit,” Sasha says, backing out of the network of old Soviet record sites and tapping into the series of back doors she normally uses to access police records, “even knowing what we know, it still seems hard to believe that someone could be killed by an evil clown doll.”

“It’s probably not actually the doll,” Martin says absently. “Probably just a manifestation of the Stranger. There were clowns in the circus, after all, it’s not without the realm of possibility that the doll in Denikin’s steamer trunk was just an effigy of a real clown.”

Jon gives him a look of mingled amusement and amazement. “You’ve really got the hang of this side of things, haven’t you? The rest of us are fumbling in the dark and you’re marching in front with a spotlight.”

Martin’s cheeks turn pink, but he shrugs. “It just…makes sense, I guess. It’s like—like I’ve had this bag of puzzle pieces my whole life, only they’re a photomosaic and they aren’t really distinct enough to put together easily and there aren’t any distinct corners or edges to it. But now someone’s finally given me the box, so I can see what the whole picture is supposed to look like. Makes it easier to put together the right way.”

“We’re lucky to have you,” Jon says with a smile.

If Martin blushes any harder, the heat is going to set off Sasha’s computer fan. He mumbles something and goes back to work comparing the two statements.

Sasha hits a wall in researching the police records. No, not a wall—a black hole. There’s simply an empty space where the records ought to be. She backs out and tries again and again. Still nothing.

“We may have to get Tim to work his magic on this,” she tells Jon. “I think this might go past hacking files and into seducing file clerks.”

“Are you saying you don’t think you’re capable of seducing a file clerk on your own, Miss James?” Jon asks with a lift of his eyebrow. Sasha makes a rude noise in his direction and he smirks.

Martin looks up. “Where _is_ Tim, anyway? Shouldn’t he be back by now?”

The smile melts off of Jon’s face. Sasha glances at the clock at the bottom corner of her screen and is astonished to realize it’s nearly four in the afternoon. “I’m not letting any of you boys go off on your own in the middle of the day anymore. Every time I do, you disappear for hours on end.”

Before Jon or Martin can answer, Jon’s phone rings. He fishes it out of his pocket and answers with a crisp greeting. Instantly, his expression shifts. “Tim! Are you all right? We were just—what?” A frown puckers his forehead. “You’re _where?_ How did you…never mind. I know where that is. _Stay_ there. I’m on my way.” He hangs up and slides to his feet, then opens Tim’s desk drawer and fishes out his keys.

“Is everything all right?” Martin asks, a little anxiously.

“It’s fine. Tim got himself turned around and needs a rescue.” Jon flips through the keys and mutters under his breath, “I never pegged him for the damsel in distress type.” Straightening, he adds in a normal tone of voice, “I’ll be right back. Martin, if you can, go through the Hector Silvana file and see what we still need to follow up on…Sasha, have you had a chance to look into those incidents in Jason North’s statements?”

“Not yet, but I will.”

“Thank you. I’ll be back soon.” Jon turns on his heel and strides out of the Archives.

Sasha waits until she hears the door close, then tilts her laptop slightly closed and looks over at Martin. “So, while the Helicopter Parents are out of the Archives, how’s the search for a new place to live going?”

From the way Martin’s ears go pink again, she knows she’s right; he’s been avoiding the topic. Tim is still weirdly persistent about them staying at his house, and while Jon puts up halfhearted protests, Sasha doesn’t think he’s actually all that keen to go back to his own flat. Sasha’s been crashing in Tim’s bed since the Primes moved out, mostly because the others keep protesting the idea of sleeping in there and she’s just tired of arguing and also slightly tired of Tim’s living room, but she’s ready to go home. As much as she loves her boys, she looks forward to having her own space again.

“I’ve been looking,” Martin says, a bit reluctantly. “There are a few…Martin Prime told me where he ended up in his timeline, and it’s—it’s not bad, really, but it’s a bit out of my price range. He didn’t have a choice, he had to get somewhere in a hurry and it was the only place he could even come close to affording. I know Tim’s going to eventually want me off his sofa, so I’m looking, but…”

“Well, if you need someone to put in a good word for you, let me know,” Sasha says. “I don’t think there are any units open in my building, but my landlord runs a few different ones. Might be able to get you a good rate.”

“Th-thanks. I’ll let you know.”

Sasha re-opens her laptop and goes back to work. She somehow doesn’t think Martin’s going to ask her for a recommendation. As a matter of fact, she’s already mentally betting with herself against him asking Tim how much he’d charge to rent out his spare bedroom. They might all live alone, normally, but she’s noticed over the last couple of months that the boys seem much more relaxed sharing a space than they did before. And besides, living alone in the Archives for weeks on end probably isn’t good for anyone’s sanity. No wonder Martin wants to be around people these days.

She’s managed to verify an apparent lack of supernatural involvement in two of the incidents involving Jason North when she hears footsteps and Martin looks up from his work. The look of relief that spreads over his face tells her without looking around that it’s Jon and Tim returning, none the worse for the wear.

“Thanks for the lift,” Tim says, sliding into his seat and bumping his shoulder against Martin’s companionably. “Seriously, I didn’t realize I’d wandered so far, I just—”

“Tim, it’s fine. No real harm done,” Jon says, in a tone that indicates they’ve been having this argument for several minutes. “It’s been a long day and you needed to clear your head. Nothing’s actively trying to kill us at the moment, so far as we know. It’s fine.”

“Yeah.” Tim opens his laptop. “Still. Next time I need space, I’ll go…I don’t know, reorganize a shelf or something. Feels more productive.”

“At least it’s a nice day,” Martin says, but there’s an element of uncertainty in his voice as he glances at one of the high-set windows in the Archive. They’re technically underground, and while it was nice enough when the three of them went to lunch earlier, that’s no guarantee it still is.

“Yeah, it is. Oh, and, ah, I found something kind of interesting.” Tim reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper, which he waves at the other three with a slight teasing grin.

Sasha can see in his eyes, though, that whatever it is, he’s very, very serious about it. “Oh? Do tell.”

Tim unfolds the paper and spreads it out on his desk. Sasha, Jon, and Martin all crane their heads over to see. It’s one of those flyers that real estate agents set out sometimes in front of houses for sale or rent, which is when Sasha remembers that Tim technically rents the little semidetached house they’ve all been crashing in lately. This one is terraced, but looks bigger, and appears to be in a halfway decent neighborhood. The price at the bottom is surprisingly reasonable for a house in London proper.

“Are you thinking of moving?” Sasha asks, surprised.

“Well, yeah. I-I mean, I wasn’t before, necessarily, but…well, I’ve been thinking. I’ve been living in that same house since, well, before Danny died,” Tim says softly. Martin looks up, eyes filled with sympathy. “It might not be a bad idea to start over somewhere new, you know? And it might be nice to _own_ something, to start putting down roots. Plus, this one’s bigger—three bedrooms, it says. A-and I thought, well, I mean, if all of us went in together, it might…” He trails off.

Jon looks more startled than he has all day. “Wait. You thought—you wanted all of _us_ to—”

“Well, it’s just—” Tim looks at Martin. “You need a place still, and I know—I thought it might be easier to share expenses on a place than to go full out on your own. And I’ve—I’ve kind of got used to having all of you around. I like it.” He looks from Martin to Jon to Sasha and back, his eyes almost pleading. “It’s just an idea, but—I mean, I thought I’d see if you guys were interested.”

Sasha is touched, but she’s also a little worried. Tim can be impulsive and tends to throw his whole heart into something, and he’s also been known to pin all his hopes on a single course of action. If he’s had the idea of all of them living together permanently in his head for more than a few minutes, it might not be easy for her to extract herself and go back to her own flat. It has to happen, though. She’s got just enough of a life outside the Institute that it’s important for her to get away.

Martin picks up the flyer and studies it more closely. “Says there’s an open house on Saturday afternoon,” he says, handing it over to Jon. “Might be worth taking a look, anyway.”

Tim brightens visibly. Jon examines the flyer, then nods slowly. “I think that would be an excellent idea.”

He offers it to Sasha, who smiles and shakes her head. “You boys have fun. I’ve got an appointment Saturday afternoon.”

It’s not exactly untrue. Second and fourth Saturdays are visiting days, and Sasha hasn’t been by in a while, so she probably ought to go. Plus she really does need to get her nails done. But it’s also a convenient excuse to avoid going and not have to pretend she’s going to be splitting the mortgage with them. Because Sasha knows herself well enough to know she’s not going in with the other three if they decide to do this. She values her independence, she values her privacy, and she does _not_ want Tim to entertain any hopes that they might actually get together at some point. Besides, she picked her building for a reason, one she’s still not ready to share with the boys. She should probably feel guilty for keeping secrets, but she doesn’t.

“We’ll let you know what it’s like,” Tim promises.

Sasha smiles and nods and goes back to work and tries not to think about the fact that she’s basically going to break Tim’s heart.


	23. Tim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A delivery arrives in the Archives. No one is happy about this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to state, in advance of this chapter, that I fucking love Timothy Stoker with my entire everything. That being said, I would apologize for what I'm about to put him through, but I think we would all know I was lying if I did.

Sasha at least has the decency to call Saturday afternoon to say that her “appointment” ran late and she’s spending the night in her own flat, which is closer, but Tim’s a bit more upset about it than he really has any right to be. Martin and Jon seem to understand, though, or at least not to blame him, and he falls asleep tucked between them on the sofa. He wakes up Sunday morning a bit stiff and sore, but feeling safe and comforted for the first time in a while, and for the first time actually stays where he is rather than getting up immediately. Sunday night, when she still doesn’t come back, the three of them pile into Tim’s bed.

It makes him feel a little better come Monday morning, although he still doesn’t completely relax until Sasha stumbles in with her coffee and a box of pastries as a peace offering. He’s happier to see her safe than to see the box of doughnuts, but he’s not going to complain about those, either.

They spend the first few minutes of the day sharing Sasha’s doughnuts and telling her about the house they toured on Saturday. She’s politely enthusiastic, but in her eyes there’s a hint of _don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask_ that makes something sink in Tim’s stomach. She’s not interested in sharing a house with the others, no matter how much space of her own she could have. She’s vague about what she was doing on Saturday, and Tim decides that pressing her isn’t going to be a good idea. As a result, at least in his opinion, Monday is a bit tense, especially compared to how things have been in the last two months. He’s a little bit anxious and agitated when she insists on going home after work again, so Martin makes grilled cheese sandwiches because they’re a childish comfort food of Tim’s. They end up sitting around the kitchen table going over their finances, and Tim forgets his worries about Sasha in favor of being horrified at how much of Martin’s paycheck is going to his mother’s care home bills, but the overall end result is that Tim makes an appointment for them to see a banker on Thursday.

Sasha is enthusiastic for them, even if she’s not planning to be a part of things, so the mood on Tuesday morning is high. Martin goes on the warpath against the cobwebs cluttering up the corners of the Archive shelves while Tim pours on the charm to try and wheedle records out of people who shouldn’t give them out and Sasha coaxes secrets out of the Internet. Jon shuts himself up in his office, presumably to do whatever digital recordings he can; the statements might not be genuine encounters, but since Elias doesn’t know they know what’s what, they have to keep up appearances, at least for now.

All that changes when Sasha’s desk phone rings.

“Archives, Sasha James speaking,” she says, her voice crisp and professional. A look crosses over her face that Tim can’t identify, but her voice never changes. “Of course. I’ll be right up.” She hangs up and looks over at Tim. “That was Manal at Reception. Someone’s here to make a statement.”

“And we can’t send them to Research because…?” Tim prompts.

“Don’t know why it doesn’t work that way, honestly, but one of you better let Jon know someone’s coming. I’m on escort duty.” Sasha closes her laptop and heads for the steps, coming back briefly to retrieve her shoes.

Tim sighs and goes over to Jon’s office, since Martin is still back in the stacks, so to speak. They’ve all grown comfortable enough with one another, especially in the last two months, that Tim doesn’t bother knocking; anyway, digital statements are easy to edit, or even re-record, if the sound quality isn’t the best. He just pushes open the door and sticks his head in. “Hey, boss, just a—” he begins, then stops. Dread rushes through him.

The office is empty.

“Jon?” Tim calls, just to confirm Jon isn’t ducking under his desk for some reason. He already knows it’s useless, though. The pile of statements next to his desk are neatly arranged and closed, his laptop is shut, and most importantly, his mug of tea isn’t sitting on the end of the desk.

Tim uses a string of words that his _nonno_ wasn’t supposed to use in front of the children and ducks out of the office, trying not to panic. He knows it’s ridiculous. Nothing’s stalking them at the moment, there’s no imminent danger. There’s no reason to worry. Jon’s probably _fine._ He’s probably getting a cup of tea from the break room.

Except that they have a tea station in the Archives now, so he doesn’t need to go that far. And Tim’s noticed that Jon never seems to finish his tea unless Martin makes it, which he probably wouldn’t have spotted if not for the fact that he’s kind of the same way. And Jon’s usually good about telling them when he’s ducking out.

“Martin!” Tim calls, pulling the door shut and trying to keep the hysterical edge out of his voice. “Have you seen Jon?”

Martin pops around the edge of a shelf, a slight frown on his face. “Isn’t he still down in the tunnels?”

“The tunnels?” Tim feels his heart begin to slow down, and he wonders if the doorknob is going to be strong enough to keep him upright when his knees buckle. “I didn’t know he went down there.”

“Yeah, about…” Martin twists his wrist and peers at the inside of it. He’s the only person Tim knows under the age of thirty who still wears a wristwatch. “Forty-five minutes ago, maybe? Did you not notice?”

“I was…probably on the phone with someone,” Tim admits, feeling embarrassed. “God. But he did let you know?”

“Not sure he would have if I hadn’t caught him,” Martin says, a hint of disapproval in his tone. “He promised he wouldn’t be long, though.”

“Well, it’s time to come up. Someone’s coming to give a statement,” Tim tells him. “You want to go fetch him? I don’t think there’s much service down there.”

Martin hesitates, then, to Tim’s surprise, shakes his head. “You go get him. I’ll…is Sasha fetching whoever’s got the statement?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I’ll stick around. Make tea. It’ll probably help. You go get Jon.” Martin catches Tim’s raised eyebrow and smiles slightly. “I know what panic looks like, Tim. You’re not going to relax until you’re sure he’s okay. Am I right?”

Tim manages a smile in reply. “You’re not wrong.”

“So go get him. I know where he is, more or less, so I’m not worrying. This time,” Martin adds. “I’ll try to keep things under control until you get Jon back.”

“You’re the best, Martin.” Tim kisses Martin on the cheek without thinking as he passes by. He realizes what he’s just done a second later and almost trips over his own feet, but then decides, at this point, he’s better off pretending _that_ never happened and moving on with his life, so he heads over to the trapdoor without looking back and hopes Martin can’t see him blushing. Mentally, he runs through a few more of those words that would have Nonna applying a wooden spoon to his backside had he said them aloud.

At this point, they’ve all been down at least once, so Tim knows by now which room the Primes are staying in. He raps lightly on the door and calls, “Jon? It’s Tim. You in there?”

“Come in, Tim,” someone calls. Tim thinks it’s one of the Jons.

He pushes open the door and is relieved to see his— _their_ —Jon talking to the Primes. Jon looks honestly confused as he glances down at his phone. “I swear I was watching the time,” he protests. “And I _did_ tell Martin I was coming. I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

Tim decides not to pick that fight. “I believe you. Sorry to cut this short, but someone’s here to make a statement.”

Jon’s shoulders slump. “God,” he says under his breath. “Did they say what it was about?”

“Dunno. Front desk called. Sasha went to fetch whoever it is and I said I’d give you a heads-up. Martin said he’d stall until I brought you back.”

Jon glances at the Primes. “I don’t suppose it’s a false alarm.”

“I don’t think I took a live statement I could record on the laptop after the first six months,” Jon Prime says apologetically. “It’s probably…Christ, what was the…? I swear I only had three live statements on tape before Jane Prentiss attacked. There was Naomi Hearn, then Melanie King, then…”

“That surgeon,” Martin Prime supplies. “The one whose students all had placeholder names.”

“Oh, God, yeah, the apple.” Jon Prime shakes his head. “It’s a Stranger statement.”

Jon sighs heavily and starts to stand. “I suppose I ought to take it,” he says reluctantly. “It’s a shame…never mind.”

“No, what?” Tim insists. “If there’s anything we can do to help…”

“Unfortunately, I’m not sure I’ll be able to justify all of you sitting in on the statement. The live ones are the worst, energy-wise. And I’d hoped to—” Jon meets Tim’s eyes, then looks away, obviously embarrassed.

Tim gets it. Even sleeping between Jon and Martin last night, he’s sure his nightmares were bad. They all know the only way for it to stop is for him to make the statement, and he _wants_ to tell both of them about Danny. But if Jon takes a live statement today, it’ll probably be another week before he can take another, and that’s assuming nobody else comes in with a real one.

“If I may make a suggestion?”

Tim and Jon both turn to look at Jon Prime, who looks up at them with a curious expression. “I’m open to any,” Jon answers.

“If Sasha is escorting your statement-giver downstairs, that means it’s only the four of you down in the Archives,” Jon Prime says. “And as he’s never met you, he has no idea what to expect you to look like.”

“Are you suggesting—what are you suggesting?” Jon narrows his eyes at his counterpart.

Martin Prime pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, closing his eyes as if he has a headache. “He’s suggesting that _he_ go up there with Tim and take the statement for you.”

Jon Prime gestures at Martin Prime grandly. Tim and Jon exchange looks. It’s not actually a _bad_ idea. It’ll keep Jon from sinking any deeper than he already has, at least not yet, and he still doesn’t want that much power. And as Jon Prime said, nobody other than the four of them will know Jon Prime isn’t Jon…as long as Elias doesn’t come down.

“That…could work,” Jon says cautiously. He glances at Tim. “You’ll let the others know why we’re doing this?”

Tim nods. “’Course. And if it’s fake after all, Jon Prime can eat him.”

“I don’t eat people. Only their fear.” Jon Prime kisses Martin Prime’s cheek, the same way Tim accidentally did Martin, which he tries very hard not to think about. “I’ll be back. Half an hour, tops.”

“Be careful.” Martin Prime squeezes his hand, but lets him go. Jon offers Tim a weak smile and sits back down as well.

Tim leads Jon Prime out of the room and into the corridors. As they reach the foot of the steps, Jon Prime says casually, “Care to tell me why you’re blushing, Tim?”

“No,” Tim answers promptly. “No, I would not.”

Jon Prime’s chuckle follows Tim up the steps. He pointedly ignores it.

Martin’s good at this. He and Sasha have positioned their guest—a tall, austere man in a tweed jacket with patches at the elbows and a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair—with his back to the trap door. He’s cradling a steaming cup of tea and listening to Martin explain something. Martin’s eyes drift over the man’s shoulder, not enough to be obvious, and meet Tim’s. Tim flashes an OK sign and stands aside to let Jon Prime out, then carefully closes the trapdoor behind him.

Jon Prime takes a moment to collect himself, like an actor preparing to go onstage. His head goes up, his shoulders go back, and a cold, professional veneer drops over his face. In an instant, he’s put on the persona Jon wore up until Jane Prentiss attacked, and now only trots out for special occasions, like Elias dropping by to “make sure things are going well”. Tim hasn’t seen it in weeks, and he’s never seen it on Jon Prime. It’s somehow even more impressive and intimidating, between the hair, the scars, and the fact that Jon Prime is usually so expressive. He’s looked amused, fond, exasperated, tender, panicked, and utterly besotted, but never blank and stern. There’s just the faintest hint of annoyance in his expression, and Tim finds himself bracing to apologize to the older man who’s about to have to face Jonathan “This is a _complete_ waste of time” Sims.

“May I help you?” Jon Prime says as he strides over, every word crisp and distinct, holding himself like a respectable academic and not an eldritch horror from outside of time and space piloting a battered meat suit.

The man turns around and starts slightly at the sight of Jon Prime, but rallies and offers him a wary nod and a smile. “I certainly hope so. Are you the Head Archivist?”

“Jonathan Sims.” Jon Prime extends his hand. “And you are…?”

“Dr. Lionel Elliott. I’m a professor at Kings College, London.” Dr. Elliott accepts Jon Prime’s hand and shakes it. An odd look comes over his face. “That’s a rather nasty scar. Surprised it didn’t do more damage to your hand.”

“It’s a rather old injury at this point, and I’ve had extensive physical therapy,” Jon Prime says curtly. “I appreciate your concern, however. What may I help you with?”

“Ah.” Dr. Elliott takes a breath. “I was hoping to…make a statement. I had a…deeply unpleasant experience with a class over this last term, and…I hear this institution makes a collection of such things? I—I was hoping you could tell me…that you could help me with it.”

“I see,” Jon Prime says, as if this is news to him. “Well, we’ll certainly see what we can do. If you’ll step into my office?”

He escorts Dr. Elliott to Jon’s office. The second the door closes behind them, the other two turn to look at Tim, Sasha’s eyes curious and Martin’s worried and pleading. Tim holds up his hands to stave off Martin’s concern. In a low voice, he says, “Jon’s fine. We just thought…doing it this way might mean Jon doesn’t have to start sinking so deep. And, well, it’s one less nightmare for him.”

Martin exhales heavily. The worry doesn’t really disappear from his eyes, but it at least shifts its focus, Tim guesses. He can understand that. They’ve all slept in proximity to one another enough to know that Jon’s nightmares are bad and Tim’s aren’t much better. If Martin has nightmares, they’re silent, which isn’t necessarily a point in their favor.

Sasha heads back to her desk. “So this is a real one, is it?”

“Apparently. Jon Prime thinks it’s the Stranger. Not the doctor,” Tim adds quickly as all the color drains out of Martin’s face and he turns towards the office. “Whoever he came in contact with. We’re safe enough. I think.”

Martin inhales, holds the breath for a few seconds, and then lets it out in a slow hiss. “I’m going to go finish digging out those statements. Maybe we can get started on dividing up the work while…he handles that.” He stalks back into the shelves. Tim watches him go, then sighs and thumps into his seat.

A minute or two later, Martin comes back with a stack of files and drops them on his desk. Tim reaches over and snags about half of them and scans the labels. Now that he’s familiar with Gertrude’s numbering system, such as it is, he can see that all but one of the files he’s grabbed are from within the last ten years or so. The other…

“Jesus, is this from the 1800s?” Tim opens the file. It contains nothing except a letter on old, yellowed paper, scorched in places and written in very shaky handwriting that fades in and out. The date at the top is clearly legible, however: _November 10, 1845._ “1845. Anything important happen that year?”

Martin shrugs. “I mean…depends on what you consider important?”

“Well, what do _you_ know happened that year?” Tim almost asks _what do you consider important,_ but he doesn’t want to diminish anything Martin might know.

“Edgar Allen Poe published _The Raven._ Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning met, and she started writing her _Sonnets from the Portuguese._ The Yarmouth suspension bridge collapsed and killed eighty people, mostly children. First year of the Great Famine in Ireland. And I think it was the year the rubber band was invented, or at least patented, but you’d have to ask Jon about that.”

“He’d know.” Tim carefully picks up the first page. “Let’s see what our spooky correspondent has to say.”

He’s quickly absorbed in the story. Despite the faded and patchy ink, it’s surprisingly easy to read, once he gets into it, and the woman’s tale grips him in a way he can’t explain. Absently, he picks up a pen and slides over a notebook to begin jotting down notes to follow up on, inasmuch as he can follow up on something almost older than the Institute itself. It’s a challenge, and Tim likes a challenge.

“Christ,” he says on a sigh, setting down the last page of the letter at last. “That’s a weird one. Gonna be fun to follow up on. Whatcha got there, Marto?”

“Ah, it’s a statement regarding a—deep-dive, somewhere in Canada. Looks like a lot.” Martin angles the page towards Tim. “And look who’s involved.”

“Simon Fairchild,” Tim reads. “Didn’t… _they_ mention him being related to one of the entities?”

“The Vast. I never thought about the deep sea being part of that, but…makes sense.” Martin checks the list he made. “Few names to follow up on. What about you? What’ve you got?”

“Cannibalism on the Oregon Trail. I thought it might’ve been the Stranger at first, but now it’s pretty obviously the Flesh.” Tim looks over at Sasha, who’s typing away on her computer. “Might need you to get on some of this, Sash.”

“One of these days I will get used to the two of you discussing these…things like you’re talking about what you watched on television over the weekend,” Sasha says without looking up. “Today is not that day.”

Martin winces. “Sorry.”

Sasha waves him off and holds out a hand. “Give me the names. Both of you. I can at least get started on that while you two dissect more statements.”

Tim rips off the top page of his notebook. Martin hesitates. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. Everything else I had for today is done.”

Martin shrugs and hands her his notes, then grabs the next file and flips it open.

They’re both about halfway through their second files when the door to Jon’s office opens. Tim looks up and for a minute is genuinely startled to see the scars dotting Jon’s face and hands, until his brain catches up with the fact that it’s Jon Prime. His eyes scan the group for a moment as he emerges behind their guest. “Sasha, can you escort Dr. Elliott out of the Archives, please?”

“Oh, no need, it’s a straight shot, after all.” Dr. Elliot balls something up in his hand. “Thank you for your time. Do let me know what you find.”

“Of course,” Jon Prime assures him, a bit stiffly.

They all watch Dr. Elliott stride up the stairs. Tim mentally counts off the number of steps to the main floor of the Institute, and once he’s sure Dr. Elliott is out, he turns to Jon Prime. “Was it real?”

“Oh, yes, it’s exactly the statement I thought it was,” Jon Prime says, a bit absently. “There won’t be much follow-up you can do, honestly. The names of all the students were basically the official placeholder names in several countries. They’re definitely creatures of the Stranger, anyway. You can speak to Elena Bower in the Kings College administration office if you’d like to confirm that the class actually happened, just for the form of things, but beyond that, a dead end.”

“Good, maybe Jon’ll let us focus on these,” Tim grunts, looking down at the paper in front of him. _I also started to notice, on some of the pages, a faint scorching around the edges, though it would be some time before my own attempts to burn it proved how resilient it really was._ “I know how much he loves anything involving Leitners.”

“You’ve got one, too?” Martin looks up from what he’s reading. “I’m assuming this is a Leitner in this one. Haven’t finished yet, but it’s definitely a book, and he—he mentions a library sticker that’s mostly missing.”

“Nobody’s said anything about a library sticker in this one, but it’s a creepy book full of eerily detailed stories of dead people, so I’m assuming,” Tim drawls.

Jon Prime peers over Tim’s shoulder. “Yes and no. Leitner really didn’t have…he was simply a librarian, of sorts. A—a collector. Not every book involving one of the Powers passed through his hands. I don’t believe that particular book was one of them.”

Tim looks up at Jon Prime. “The End?”

“I believe so, yes…Martin, which one do you have?”

“Um, _Tales of a Field Hospital._ I thought it was the End at first, but the things he talks about these soldiers dying of…it reads more like the Corruption to me.”

Jon Prime looks pleased, like he’s just received an answer from a prize student. “John Amherst. I remember that one. I think it was the third time I’d come across the name at that point.”

“It’s a new one by me,” Martin says, then pauses. “Wait, no—that nursing home we’ve been looking into, Ivy Meadows. Wasn’t John Amherst the man who took it over?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Sasha says, still absorbed in her computer. “Can’t find much about him, though, which probably should have been my first clue. The harder these people are to pin down, the closer they are to the entities, seems like.”

“You’re not wrong about that,” Jon Prime tells her. “The entities protect their own, and the longer-lived ones are quite good at covering their traces, for the most part.”

Tim snorts. “I would be, too, if I knew the Ring-Maker was going to scrutinize every possible reference someone else made to me and try and track me down.”

Martin points his pen at Tim, his face almost comically stern. “If you start calling this place _Barad-dûr,_ I will dump you in a volcano myself.”

“You even got the accent right,” Tim says, unaccountably pleased.

“Nerds. You are both _nerds,_ ” Sasha announces, as if this is a great revelation and not the culmination of several years’ worth of observation.

Jon Prime shakes his head as if in exasperation, but he’s dropped the Head Archivist mask and he looks amused. “Right, well, that ought to keep me going for a bit. I’ll head back and send out—”

“’Scuse us.”

The voice startles Tim, and he looks up sharply to see two men standing in the Archives. He has no idea where they came from, or how they got into the Archives without any of them noticing, since they’re both big men. They’re dressed like typical delivery men, but there’s something about them that makes Tim’s blood run cold. One of them is carrying a clipboard. The other is carrying a package.

“Looking for the Archivist,” says the one holding the package. He has a Cockney accent, but it sounds a bit fake, like someone who’s watched _Mary Poppins_ six hundred times and thinks Dick Van Dyke is actually British.

“I’m sorry, are you two meant—” Martin begins, standing up, which Tim thinks is rather brave of him. He stands, too, instinctively wanting to protect Martin and Sasha but not quite sure how he’s going to, especially since Martin seems to be trying to protect _him._

“Won’t take up your time,” says the man with the clipboard.

“Just got a delivery,” adds the man with the package.

“Right, but you shouldn’t—” Martin tries.

“Package for Jonathan Sims.”

“Says right here.”

They toss the words back and forth, not exactly finishing each other’s sentences but definitely sounding as though they’re one person divided in two. It’s a bit dizzying and a lot disconcerting and Tim is unaccountably scared.

“I am the Archivist,” Jon Prime says. His voice is low and dangerous as he steps forward and physically puts himself between the two delivery men and the three assistants. It shouldn’t be intimidating, considering he’s literally the smallest person in the room, but he radiates an aura of power and subtle menace. For the first time, Tim truly understands what the Primes have been talking about…and what their Jon is afraid of becoming.

“Sign here,” the man with the clipboard says, thrusting it towards him.

“For the package,” the man with the package clarifies.

“Something else upstairs for you.”

“Lady at the desk signed for it.”

“You don’t need my signature,” Jon Prime says, and holds out his hand for the package.

“Sure we do.”

“That’s protocol.”

“Really,” Jon Prime says, sarcasm dripping from his tongue. “You thrive on anonymity and you won’t respect the desires of others to remain that way?” Static crackles in the air, and Tim finds himself taking a half-step closer to Martin, who reaches out and presses a hand flat against his back as if in comfort or support. “I Know who you are. I Know who you work for. _**I See you.**_ **”**

The static rises in pitch, almost as bad as when Jon Prime tried to look into the Eye back in Tim’s living room. Tim winces and shrinks against Martin, grabbing for him without conscious thought. Martin grabs him back, evidently gritting his teeth against the pain. The two delivery men look upset, uncomfortable—scared. Tim almost sympathizes with them.

“What’re you doing?” asks one.

“Stop it,” the other orders, or tries to.

“Leave the package and go,” Jon Prime orders, and his voice has an almost hollow echo to it. “And **leave them alone.** ”

The one with the package practically throws it at him. Jon Prime lets it fall to the ground at his feet and stares at the two men as they practically stumble over one another trying to get to the steps.

After a moment, the static vanishes as abruptly as it began, and Jon Prime’s shoulders slump as he takes a deep, shuddering breath. Tim realizes he’s clutching Martin like a drowning man, but he’s not particularly inclined to let go.

“You know, those statements won’t sustain you for long if you immediately expend all the energy you obtain from them,” Sasha observes. Tim blinks at her in astonishment. He has no clue how she can be so… _calm_ after that, but there’s an intensity to her gaze and a brightness to her face that he doesn’t think was there before. “Who was that?”

“Breekon and Hope,” Jon Prime says softly. He bends down to pick up the package.

Martin eases up his death grip on Tim’s shirt, but doesn’t let go completely. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice wavering.

Tim’s not sure who he’s actually addressing, but Jon Prime answers. “I’m fine. I only scared them a bit. Put the fear of the Eye in them, I suppose, not that that’s entirely difficult.” He turns around and studies Tim and Martin, and his face softens. “Are you all right?”

“I-I think so.” Martin sounds uncertain. “Tim, are you…?”

“I don’t know,” Tim lies. He _does_ know. He’s definitely not all right. He’s shaken to his core and he’s not sure if it’s from Jon Prime’s display of power or from the presence of the two delivery men or from Sasha being so into it or some combination of the three.

Martin tries to help Tim sit down, but Tim clings to him. He doesn’t really have it in himself to be embarrassed by it, either. Martin, thank God, doesn’t force the issue, just shifts his arms to comfort him a little better, even though Martin probably needs the comfort, too.

Jon Prime reaches out like he wants to put his hand on Tim’s shoulder, but stops just before he makes contact and draws back. Quietly, he says, “I’ll send your Jon up. I—I am sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s fine,” Tim says, and means it. He’s not afraid of Jon Prime, not really. What he can _do,_ possibly, but not of _him._

Jon Prime does touch his shoulder lightly, then Martin’s, before disappearing in the direction of the trapdoor. Tim closes his eyes and tries to focus on Martin murmuring soothing nonsense at him in the hopes that it will actually soothe him.

“Tim? Tim! Oh, God.” It’s Jon’s voice and suddenly Jon is there, awkwardly hugging Tim from behind. “Jon Prime told me—a-are you all right?”

“Getting there,” Tim mumbles. He frees one hand and grips the nearest one of Jon’s—it’s cold as ice, he’s got terrible circulation—and tucks his chin onto Martin’s shoulder.

The three of them stand like that for a few minutes, until Tim stops shaking and he feels his breathing even out. He takes a deep breath and slowly eases his grip on Martin and on Jon’s hand; obviously understanding, the other two let go of him, but they don’t go far.

“Better?” Martin asks gently.

Tim nods. “Thank you,” he says, his voice a bit hoarse, as he looks from Martin to Jon. He catches Sasha’s eye, from where she still sits behind her computer; she gives him a slightly guilty look, and he tries to smile to let her know he doesn’t judge her. He’s not sure he pulls it off.

Jon takes a half-step back and bunches the cuffs of his cardigan up in his hands—it may be July, but the climate control system in the Archives maintains a steady temperature to preserve the more delicate documents and it’s usually kind of chilly down here, so they’re definitely used to wearing sweaters or jackets year-round by now. “What happened? All Jon Prime said was that ‘the delivery came’ and he thought you might—” He breaks off, his eyes flicking back and forth between Martin and Tim, with a side trip to Sasha.

“Right after Dr. Elliott left, a couple of delivery men showed up,” Sasha tells him. She pushes something on the edge of her desk towards Jon, and it takes Tim a second to realize it’s the package the men threw at Jon Prime. “They delivered that, and also something upstairs that I think they had either Rosie or Manal sign for, probably Rosie. It’s addressed to you, anyway. Jon Prime stared them down and drew a bit on the Eye’s power to tell them to go away. I mean, they were a bit creepy, but they didn’t seem that bad. He said they were Breekon and Hope.”

“Bree—? Oh, God, the table,” Jon says softly, his eyes going wide. “It must have been the table. They said—oh, God.”

Sasha holds up a finger and pushes away from her desk. Tim watches her go, then turns to Jon with a little bit of trepidation. “What’s in that one?”

Jon opens the box gingerly, as if it might contain a bomb. What he pulls out, however, is an old lighter. It’s gold, or at least Tim thinks it’s gold for a second before he realizes it’s probably actually brass, and there’s a design on the front that looks like it might be a spiderweb. Jon holds it gingerly, like it might be going to attack him, which makes sense; the Web probably terrifies him as much as the Stranger scares Tim, and for a similar reason.

Martin’s face goes almost paper-white beneath his freckles. “That’s the—Martin Prime gave me that same lighter to set the fire when Jane Prentiss got in. Christ.”

Jon’s fingers curl lightly around the lighter, and he takes a deep breath, then slips it into his pocket just as Sasha returns with two folders. She waves the one in her left hand in Jon’s direction. “Leanne Denikin’s file, containing crime scene reports for both Joshua Drury and Henry Winchester.” She waves the right one. “Amy Patel’s statement, complete with description of the table. Do you want to run these up to Artifact Storage or do you want me to?”

“I—I probably ought to. It might carry more…emphasis coming from me, and after all, the table was addressed to me. In theory.” Jon takes the folders and frowns at the spines. “What’s this?”

“Oh, um, actually, I did that,” Martin says. “I’m starting to, anyway. I—I found all these colored labels in one of the filing cabinets last year, and, well, we weren’t using them so I just left them, but after—after everything, I just, well, I thought it might help us a bit if we could look at the files we’ve already done and know right away if they’re real or not and what they deal with, so I’ve been sort of trying to color-code them. There are only ten different colors, but I’m just combining for the higher numbers.”  
Jon actually smiles, for the first time since coming up from the tunnels. “That’s brilliant. Would you write out what your system is so we all know to start using it? I’ll—I’ll be right back.” His smile fades a little bit as he looks at Tim. “Are you all right now?”

“As all right as I will be, I guess.” Tim summons up a smile. “Thanks, boss.”

Jon pats his arm, a little awkwardly, then turns and heads for the steps. They all watch him go for a minute, then Sasha turns to Martin. “Right, explain this system of yours.”

It’s at once simple and ingenious, a basic combination of numbers and colors that nevertheless paints a vivid picture. Martin even designated the zero alone for those statements that are demonstrably false. It does mean they’re going to need a lot of zeroes, but Martin’s right, it will help a lot. And it’s not like they have to publicize what those labels mean. On those rare occasions that researching students need the files, they can just say it’s an internal filing system and leave it at that. Once Martin’s explained it, Sasha offers to start putting labels on those files they’ve already researched and recorded while Martin and Tim go back to sorting through the files Martin Prime evidently gathered for them.

Jon returns with the two files under his arm, looking a bit peaked, and Martin immediately sets aside the file and gets up to make tea. Tim offers him a crooked grin, which he actually returns, then turns to Jon. “All right?”

“I don’t know.” Jon sits on the edge of Tim’s desk and sets the files down carefully, out of the way of Tim’s work. “Elias turned up while I was trying to convince Dr. Bradley I wasn’t playing around. He agreed with me that the table was dangerous, but suggested it ought to be destroyed. I—I don’t know if I made much sense when I said I wanted to be sure it could be done safely. I hope I didn’t let on that I know more than I ought to.”

Tim doesn’t want to say it, but he feels like he has to. “If he can read minds…”

“I know. I’m almost positive that’s why he came in when he did. Dr. Bradley did at least promise not to have any of his practical researchers touch the table.” Jon sighs heavily, then accepts the cup of tea from Martin with a quiet thanks and a smile. “What are you two working on?”

“Martin dug out the files Martin Prime gathered for us,” Tim informs him. He turns to Martin in surprise when Martin hands him his own cup of tea, then takes it and lets the warmth soak into his palms. “We’ve been reading through them and trying to get an idea of what we’re dealing with. Sasha started running down some of the names we came up with, but right now we’re just…skimming, I guess.”

“What have you found so far?” Jon asks, sounding both interested and cautious.

“We’ve gone through two each and just started our third,” Martin says. “One Vast, one Flesh, one End, one Corruption. And then…these two.” He gestures at the file in front of him and the one open on Tim’s desk. “I’m…actually still not completely sure about this one. She’s talking about insomnia, and it _does_ seem…odd? But I can’t figure out which one it falls under. Not yet. I’m only just getting into it, though…what’s yours, Tim?”

“Actually, I don’t know either.” Tim frowns at the statement he’s been reading. “I think this one might be a dud. I mean—he’s blind, and he’s not…he said it was just what he _felt_ was real. He could be wrong, right? This looks like an old soldier playing a prank. It’s going on about the devil being part of the British army, and I’m pretty sure that’s an Irish folk song, but—” He turns the page and blinks. “Hang on, this isn’t—this is a different handwriting. What the…?” He skims the second page quickly, then his eyes widen as it hits him. “Christ, I think this is more from Trevor Herbert.”

“The vampire hunter?” Martin asks, startled, setting aside his papers and coming to look over Tim’s shoulder. “I could’ve sworn he—I-I mean, I never _met_ him or anything, but I thought they said he lay down and never woke up.”

“Maybe they only meant he _should_ never have woken up,” Jon says, peering over Tim’s other shoulder. “Or—well, it’s dated the same day as the earlier statement, look. Maybe he just lay down later than you thought he did.”

“Maybe.” Martin sounds vaguely distressed.

Tim squeezes his hand. “It’s okay. You know we don’t expect you to know everything about what goes on at the Institute, right? I mean, there are like two hundred people working here. Even after ten years, you can’t know them all.”

Martin manages a smile in reply. Jon nods and reaches for the papers. “Here, I’ll—do you mind if I take those? Since they don’t go in this folder, after all.”

Tim hands the pages over. “I really do think the rest of this is fake, though. Probably got mis-filed. I no longer doubt Martin Prime’s statement senses, but I’m guessing that those pages there were what he sensed in this file.”

“You’re probably right. Set that one aside for now.”

Tim closes the remains of the file and grabs another. He opens it, glances at the first page, sees the words _urban exploration,_ and can’t help the sudden, sharp intake of breath. He waves off his friends’ concern, though. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ve got this.” _For now, anyway,_ he thinks but doesn’t say.

Maybe he doesn’t have to. They all go back to what they’re doing, but Jon stays out with the rest of them until it’s time for them to start lunch breaks. And they don’t let Tim go anywhere alone for the rest of the day.

He’s more grateful for that than he would have thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manal is pronounced muh-NAHL, in case you're wondering. (It's the name of the receptionist at my end of the office, who's one of the sweetest people alive, so I'm honoring her by putting her in this fic, even though I'm sure she doesn't read it.)
> 
> All of the events Martin rattles off did in fact happen in 1845, including the patenting of the rubber band. Wikipedia is a dangerous place, but thankfully, I was able to escape without forgetting why I was looking it up in the first place.
> 
> Yes, that was a Lord of the Rings reference. We won't discuss how long I spent debating which of Sauron's nicknames Tim would have used.


	24. Helen Richardson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A valiant attempt is made to thwart a potential tragedy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folks, we have a chapter count!!! I sat down this weekend and hashed out the details of the story (I had the overall plot worked out, but not the details of how to get there or how long it would take) and now I have a Plan™. I think you're gonna like where we're going! ~~I also think I'm gonna get screamed at a bit.~~
> 
> Now. Some notes on this chapter.
> 
> Normally when I add new chapters that have new things to warn about, I just add the tags to the tag list. I _should_ have been adding content warnings to each chapter as I went, and I'm sorry about that; I'll be going back through in the next couple days and adding them, as well as adding to the tags. And from here on out, content warnings will be at the end of each chapter.
> 
> I probably still wouldn't have thought about it, except that this chapter might hit a few buttons. So again: Content warnings at the end of the chapter.

It’s been almost five hours that Helen has been making the rounds of this particular house. It’s a Grade II listed building, which means that on top of the usual bankers, executives, dentists, and barristers traipsing through, she has a few people she’s fairly certain can’t afford the building but who are clearly interested in what a historic home that can be lived in might look like, despite the fact that the interior has been redone several times. She’s a little more brusque with them than the others—nothing that can be complained about, of course, just on the off-chance they _are_ actually able and, more importantly, willing to buy it, but there’s no point in wasting her time on someone she won’t earn a commission from.

She checks her list. She has one last viewing scheduled for the afternoon, and she frowns slightly at the entry. She’s not certain how to pronounce the last name, which instantly puts her on edge, and she’s a little bit annoyed that whoever put together her appointment schedule didn’t proofread it before they printed it.

It’s only when she answers the door that she realizes that her list is actually meant to say _Dr. and Mr. Walter Koskiewicz._

“Ms. Richardson?” one of the two men says. His voice is far more polished and refined than she would have expected. He’s neatly dressed in a pearl-grey button-down, tailored black pants, and a discreet but expensive-looking watch. His bearing is assured and confident, and despite the warm smile on his face, he moves like a man accustomed to obedience, respect, and wielding a decent amount of power.

Still, Helen is hard-pressed to keep her distaste from showing. The man’s silver-streaked dark hair is longer than she thinks is decent for someone in a position of authority and worn in a style more appropriate to a twenty-something entrepreneur running an experimental tech start-up than the middle-aged academic he appears (she guesses the “doctor” title is more in the nature of a Ph.D. than a medical degree). He’s also covered in scars, round and slightly ridged, pale against his brown skin, and she can’t even begin to guess where they came from, but it’s probably not something she wants to even think about, let alone know about.

And then there’s his…husband?

They’re an odd-looking couple, to be sure. The second man is at least a head taller than the first and decidedly fatter—Helen thinks uncharitably of an illustration in the book of nursery rhymes she had as a child depicting Jack Spratt and his wife—with blue eyes and fair skin dusted with freckles. His hair is short and curly, a mix of caramel and white, which is the only clue that he’s probably around the same age as the other man. He doesn’t hold himself with the same assurance and authority; while he’s smiling as well, he actually seems more than a little nervous. He’s dressed just as neatly and professionally as the first man, but he’s clinging to the first man’s arm very tightly. She can’t tell if it’s out of nerves or possessiveness or what, and she almost wants to tell him that she’s not interested in his man.

Instead, she schools her expression as best as she can. “Yes, I’m Helen Richardson.” Normally she would ask if they are the last name on her list, but she doesn’t really want to try and pronounce it, so she simply waits.

“I’m Dr. Walter Koskiewicz,” the first man says smoothly, holding out his hand. It bears the same round scars as his face, with the addition of what looks like the remains of a severe burn on his hand, which makes Helen extremely reluctant to touch it. “This is my husband Kieran. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Charmed,” Helen says. She accepts his hand for a perfunctory shake and keeps her professional smile on her face despite the somewhat unpleasant feel of the thing. She ought to offer her hand to the other as well, but frankly she just wants to get this over with. “Shall we begin the tour?”

“Of course.” Is it her imagination, or does Dr. Koskiewicz sound slightly disappointed?

Helen launches into the by-now familiar script as she begins showing the two men around the house. Dr. Koskiewicz makes several remarks that seem rather banal to her regarding the decor, and she finds herself wondering what his field is. She can’t place what Mr. Koskiewicz does for a living, either. She’d almost suspect he was simply arm candy if he was younger and fitter, but unless he’s let himself go to seed a great deal, there has to be a reason beyond that they married. And in her experience, most men whose trophy wives no longer meet a certain standard of attractiveness obtain divorces and trade in for a newer model. It may be different for gay men, though—how would she know? Of course, Dr. Koskiewicz isn’t exactly a beauty prize himself, and considering this house is on the lower end of the pricing spectrum for the sorts of places Helen usually shows, he likely isn’t as well-off as all that, comparatively. So it’s entirely possible he simply doesn’t want to rid himself of an old spouse until he’s lined up a new one.

It’s also possible that they’re actually in love, but Helen wouldn’t know about that either.

As they approach the kitchen, she begins mentally wagering with herself on whether or not they are actually interested in purchasing the house. Usually the kitchen is where the distinction comes in. It’s had all modern appliances and new counters and cabinets put in, so generally speaking, the people who are only there for curiosity’s sake start asking questions about when it was renovated and how permission was obtained and what it looked like before (Helen has no idea; the renovations were done some years ago, per the specs, and she wasn’t even working for Wolverton Kendrick then) and, often, rant about destroying the historical significance of the house, even though it’s only a Grade II. At least it enables her to weed them out as having an intent to buy before they see what’s been done to the upstairs. The serious buyers will peer in but not usually show much interest in it, considering most of them have someone to do the cooking for them, or else comment on the colors or the brand of the appliances.

She doesn’t tell the two men this, of course, only gives them the standard patter about the timing of the upgrades as she leads them in to show them the door to the back garden. Dr. Koskiewicz checks in the doorway and turns to his husband. “It’s a bit narrow. Do you want to go first?”

“You go ahead,” Mr. Koskiewicz says. It’s the first thing he’s said since he came into the house, and his voice definitely isn’t as polished as the doctor’s. Helen wonders if he’s an academic as well, just not as highly distinguished a one—a librarian, maybe? He also has a faint accent she can’t quite place. She can’t tell if they’re both foreign and Dr. Koskiewicz just had better teachers, or if, odd as it may seem, Dr. Koskiewicz chose to take his less-impressive husband’s surname rather than whatever name he had before. “Just warn me before you stop.”

“Of course.” Dr. Koskiewicz kisses him on the cheek, then moves forward to follow Helen.

She watches Mr. Koskiewicz for a moment, and then it hits her all of a sudden. He’s _blind._ She didn’t notice at first because of his glasses—clear glass, not sunglasses—and his eyes look, well, normal, not cloudy or scarred like she might have expected. The fact that he can pass himself off as a normal person bothers her, for some reason. However, the couple appears to be in the class of being able to afford the house, so she’s not going to risk saying something that might offend him, or his husband. She merely continues with her spiel.

“What are the schools like in the area?” Mr. Koskiewicz asks as they come back in from the back garden. The question makes Helen miss a step. The sorts of people who usually buy homes from Wolverton Kendrick normally have their children taught at home, and the older ones tend to get sent away to boarding school. It’s so unheard-of for her to get that question that she hasn’t even bothered to familiarize herself with the answer.

“How old are your children?” she asks, to buy herself a bit of time while she sneaks a quick glance at the folder. Surely there’s something in there about area schools. Surely.

“Oh, we don’t have any yet,” Dr. Koskiewicz says. “At the moment, it’s only the two of us and the cat. We’ve begun the application process to adopt, though, and we’re hoping to be matched soon. It’s why we’re looking at homes. Our current living situation is spacious enough, I suppose, but…not necessarily somewhere you’d want to raise a child. Or children, as the case may be. We’re hoping for more than one, at some point.”

“Well, then, you’ll have time to select the right schools.” Helen manages to find the data on local primary schools and reads off the statistics in her file. She tries to make it sound like she already knew the information, but the steady look Dr. Koskiewicz gives her makes her suspect he knows she was unprepared for it, which makes her tense and a little angry. It’s not _her_ fault they chose to ask about something so unusual.

As they head up the stairs, she decides to fish about a bit for some information. The problem is that she still isn’t confident that she’ll pronounce their name properly, and the last thing she wants is to be condescended to. That’s the way with these academic types, she’s often found; they have a little bit of power and wield it like a weapon, especially over a woman or someone they perceive to be beneath them. So in order to get the information she wants, she’ll need to come at it sideways.

“Are you at Kings College?” she asks, casually, trying to sound as if she doesn’t care one way or another if he does.

“No, I work in Chelsea,” Dr. Koskiewicz replies. At first she thinks that’s all she’s going to get, but after a moment, he adds, “I don’t know if you’re familiar with the Magnus Institute?”

Helen isn’t, not really, but she’ll chew off her own arm before she admits that. It never goes over well with clients when you profess ignorance of their profession; they always get offended if they think you should have heard of them, or at least what they do, and you haven’t. Besides, she doesn’t want to wind up in the middle of a history lesson on a non-profit or a think tank or whatever the Magnus Institute qualifies as. Best to hedge her bets. “Quite a prestigious institution,” she says in as neutral a voice as she can.

“You might say it’s outstanding in its field,” Mr. Koskiewicz says. His voice is almost as bland and neutral as Helen’s.

“It’s where we met,” Dr. Koskiewicz informs Helen. She glances over his shoulder to see him smile at Mr. Koskiewicz in a way that makes her stomach turn over. “I was hired as a researcher, he was in the library.”

Helen feels a slight stab of vindication—she was _right_ about Mr. Koskiewicz—but it’s layered with a veneer of disgust about the whole situation. This _isn’t_ the sort of neighborhood that would normally welcome people like them, she doesn’t think. Some of these high-end neighborhoods are getting a bit more diverse, but these two are a _bit_ much all at once. She’ll admit that Mr. Koskiewicz seems normal enough, at least to all outward appearances, but he’s very clearly the less powerful of the two, and his blindness is definitely a point against him.

Upstairs in the home are four rooms designated as bedrooms, and used as such by the current owners, but which can also be studies or something similar if need be. She delivers the usual speech extolling the virtues of the rooms. Mr. Koskiewicz is listening rather intently, but to her surprise and slight annoyance, Dr. Koskiewicz seems distracted. He keeps examining every door intently, peering into the spaces in between, like he’s looking for evidence of woodworm or wants to see the details of the construction. There’s something a bit unsettling about it.

“Calm down, _serce_ , you’re going to give me a headache,” Mr. Koskiewicz murmurs. “It’s okay.”

“I know, it’s—” Dr. Koskiewicz sighs and squeezes his husband’s hand before turning to Helen. “Ms. Richardson. Have you ever noticed…something unusual in this house? Or any house you were showing? Like…a door that shouldn’t be there?”

“I’m…sorry?” Helen says cautiously. She’s had some weird questions asked before. She’s been asked about whether or not a basement can be made watertight (not water _proof,_ the client had insisted, he wanted to fill the basement with water and have a subterranean swimming pool and wanted to know if it was possible). She’s been asked about a room’s suitability for rituals to the Old Gods and about whether it contained enough space for an exorcism. She’s been asked if homes are haunted, if any murders have taken place in them, and if they might have secret tunnels used by robbers or counterfeiters. But being asked if she’s ever seen a _door_ that shouldn’t be there? That’s new.

“It’s not a trick question, Ms. Richardson. Have you ever encountered a door in a place you weren’t expecting—yellow, perhaps?”

Okay, this is definitely weird. And a _yellow_ door? Why is he being so emphatic about it? Her smile is slipping. The worst of it is that Helen doesn’t know the right answer. The _truth,_ of course, is that she has no idea what he’s talking about. Of course she hasn’t seen any appearing or disappearing doors. She deals firmly in reality. She’s never seen a ghost, never spotted a UFO, never met anyone possessed by a demon. She doesn’t believe in magic, or have much truck with religion—she goes to church services with her mother on Christmas and Easter, but that’s about it, and she’s not sure how much of it she actually buys into. Certainly she’s never seen a door that wasn’t exactly where the house plan said it should be.

But she’s also usually fairly good at judging _why_ a client is asking about such things. Some of the people who ask about murders or hauntings are fearful. Others are hopeful. The answer is almost always actually _no,_ especially if it’s about the supernatural, but when she senses a client who will pay extra to be haunted or to be able to claim a salacious history to their new home, she’ll make something up, then jot it down after the client leaves just in case someone else asks before the first client commits to the sale. Very, very occasionally, there is an actual alleged haunting attached to the house—and once she really did have a house on the market that _may_ have been lived in by a serial killer during the height of his crimes—but she’s good at spinning the story properly whether it’s something the owners disclosed to her or she made it up on the spot. The trouble is that she doesn’t know if Dr. Koskiewicz _wants_ this alleged door to be there or not.

After a heartbeat, she decides on honesty. Frankly, she doubts they’re actually going to buy the house, regardless of what she says. At least this way she doesn’t have to pretend to have seen an unexpected door, be asked to describe it, and get caught out in a lie. That won’t do much for her credibility, or her commissions. You never know what kind of influence people actually have and they might spread around that she can’t be trusted.

“I can’t say that I have, Dr…” She trails off as she realizes she still doesn’t know how to pronounce his name properly.

“Koskiewicz,” Mr. Koskiewicz supplies. He’s studying Helen intently, making her wonder if she was wrong about him being blind…but no, he’s just looking in her direction, but seeming to focus on a point slightly to the left of her. It’s actually more than a little creepy and she wishes he would stop. “That’s a good thing, Ms. Richardson. A _very_ good thing.”

“Please, allow me to explain,” Dr. Koskiewicz says, sliding his arm around Mr. Koskiewicz’s waist. “We at the Magnus Institute study the paranormal and the supernatural. One of the phenomena I have been studying involves this…door that keeps turning up unexpectedly. You might say it’s a rather persistent haunting. And it’s dangerous. _Very_ dangerous.”

“I see,” Helen says politely. She hopes he’s not about to lecture her. There is nothing she finds _less_ enjoyable than an academic explaining his pet project or particular area of study to her. She would, in complete honesty, rather jam a sharp stick into her eardrums. And the paranormal? _Definitely_ not an area she has any interest in. The historians she can just about tolerate, as she occasionally learns something worth sharing about a house she’s showing that can bump up the price if the right party hears it. But she really isn’t sure she can sell a haunted _door_ as a feature. Unless this mysterious door comes with a ghost of some kind, but really, that seems a bit ludicrous. And there’s no guarantee it would be tied to any one particular house. There’s no resale value in it.

“But you haven’t seen anything like that,” Dr. Koskiewicz says. “You’re certain?”

“Very,” Helen says firmly. “I would remember.”

Dr. Koskiewicz studies her, then nods. “Good. Very good. I’d hate to raise a child in a house with _that_ hanging about.” He laughs and adds, “I’m not altogether certain the Professor would be all that thrilled with it, either.”

Helen raises an eyebrow before she can catch herself. “Ah, if you have an adult housemate, this room right here also has an en-suite bathroom. Not as grand as the master suite, of course, but certainly private and well-appointed.”

“The Professor is our cat,” Mr. Koskiewicz says with a smile. “I doubt he needs a whole room to himself, but we do appreciate your point. Perhaps a room for an oldest child.”

“Perhaps,” Dr. Koskiewicz agrees, the corners of his eyes crinkling upwards. “Someday.”

Unbelievably, there’s still a chance Helen can make this sale. She still isn’t sure she _wants_ to, but there’s a chance. She slips back into the familiar patter, rattling off the specs and amenities of the house and neighborhood. Now that they’ve dealt with the ridiculous question about an _unexpected yellow door,_ it’s a lot easier.

She winds down the spiel as they head down the steps. Dr. Koskiewicz asks several questions, more normal ones than asking about the supernatural or the paranormal, and from the sorts of things he asks, she thinks she gleans a bit more information about the pair of them. Certainly enough to tailor her closing speech properly, anyway. It’s something she prides herself on. She tends to get the bigger commissions from her employers because she can sell houses most people have given up on, at a higher price than the seller is asking, by targeting specific things about the potential buyers—either something they’ve shown interest in regarding the house, or something they’ve let slip about themselves that she can exploit. Admittedly, she’s prone to occasionally exaggerating a teeny bit, and sometimes downplaying things she can be sure won’t show up as a hit on a pre-sale inspection, but nobody’s ever come back to complain about it. As long as the company does well out of it, nobody really cares.

She delivers the closing remarks, highlighting those things she thinks they’ll be drawn to, and talks up the amenities. She decides not to mention her concerns about how well-received they would be in the neighborhood, since neither of them looks like they belong; if they buy the house and find out their neighbors are going to make their lives miserable, well, that’s not really on her, and maybe she’ll get the listing if they decide to resell. Not that she’s necessarily hoping for that, but hey, a commission is a commission.

“Contact me if you decide you want to buy,” she finally says, handing Dr. Koskiewicz her card. He studies it for a moment, then pulls out a leather wallet and tucks the card inside. “I understand you’ll need to think this over, but if you’re interested, you may want to hurry. There was a couple in this morning willing to put in an offer.”

It’s a lie, of course; these two are the most intent viewers she’s shown the house to yet, and nobody’s made an offer. The house also hasn’t been on the market very long. But she’s learned that dangling that bit of bait often gets people to put in a higher offer. The owners want two and a quarter million, but she wonders if she can get these two to go to two and a half or maybe even more. She might even be able to get them up to three, which of course means a bonus for her.

“I can assure you that you’ll be the first to know, once we’ve talked it over,” Dr. Koskiewicz says. He holds out his hand. “Thank you very much, Ms. Richardson.”

“Of course.” Helen gives him her most professional smile and accepts his hand, trying not to wince at the feel of the scar tissue against her palm. She means to give it another quick shake and move on, but he tightens his grip slightly, holding her still, and stares at her intensely. It’s extremely uncomfortable.

“Please be careful,” he says quietly. “And if you _do_ run into…anything unusual…I urge you to come to the Institute. You’ve been so kind to us. It’s the least we can do.”

Helen has no idea what he means, or what she should be worried about. And she doesn’t feel like she’s been especially kind, unless the other real estate agents they’ve dealt with have been more openly hostile about their foreignness and their homosexuality and his scars and his husband’s disability. But she’s not stupid enough to say that out loud.

“I assure you,” she says, fighting to keep her smile in place. “If anything unusual happens, you will be the first to know.”

“Thank you.” Dr. Koskiewicz releases her hand, but he keeps staring at her intently.

Mr. Koskiewicz holds out his hand uncertainly in her direction. “Thank you for being so helpful and direct. It’s refreshing to not feel…misled.”

Helen accepts his hand uncertainly, but honestly, after the doctor’s, it’s a relief—soft and fleshy to be sure, but he doesn’t grip overly hard, and it’s not as dry or, well, corrupted. Still, she’s a little unnerved by his statement, or more accurately by the way he says it, like it’s some sort of joke she doesn’t get. “Certainly. I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I wasn’t.” She takes a half-step back and manages another smile. “Have a nice evening.”

“You as well.” Dr. Koskiewicz takes Mr. Koskiewicz’ arm and leads him to the door.

Helen, as is her habit, walks them to the door and watches them head down the path. Then, unable to stand it, she quickly hurries after them and peeps through a gap in the privacy fence sheltering the front garden. She doesn’t know much about cars and isn’t sure what she’s expecting, but the battered, ancient Ford Escort isn’t it.

She stares, utterly gobsmacked, as Dr. Koskiewicz opens the door for Mr. Koskiewicz, then goes around to get in the driver’s seat. The engine coughs and chokes for a moment before it catches and the car pulls away. It somehow doesn’t fit with the image she cultivated of the two of them. Either they have less money than she thought, or they have as much money as they do _because_ they don’t spend a lot of money on new vehicles.

Either way, she thinks, glancing at her watch, her appointments are over for the day. She’s free until eight o’clock tomorrow morning and can go get something to eat, and she decides then and there that she is going to have a martini. Maybe two.

She rather thinks she’s earned them. Even if she doesn’t make a commission off of this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should apologize to Helen fans for this chapter, but just keep in mind that this isn't the Helen we know and (mostly) love; this is Helen 1.0, and this is the picture I got of her from the description Helen Distortion gave. (Sadly, I have known more than a few people like this.)
> 
> **CW:** Homophobia/xenophobia/racism/ableism/classism/general bigotry (more implied than anything, but better safe than sorry).


	25. Martin Prime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the possibility of a future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another rough chapter, but if it makes y'all feel better, it should be the roughest for a while. ("Should" being the operative term. Characters gonna character and some of them like to remind me that I only _think_ I'm in control of this vessel.
> 
> Specific content warnings at the end of the chapter.

“Well, she was right about one thing,” Jon said dryly, a moment or two after they pulled away from the curb. “I definitely don’t care much for the original Helen Richardson.”

Martin forced a smile, although he knew his heart wasn’t in it. “Our Helen said that, did she?”

“When I was in her domain. Or, well, when I was on her doorstep, anyway. She told me I wouldn’t have—how did she put it? I wouldn’t have liked ‘Helen Classic’ all that much.” Jon sighed. “I’ll give the Distortion credit for that much, anyway. She—it—never _really_ lied to us.”

Martin hummed and turned his face in the direction of the window. “She didn’t need to. Why lie when the truth would disorientate just as well?”

“That’s a fair point. God knows our world was confusing enough as it was. It was never very hard to get us—well, me, I suppose—turned around just by presenting me with a truth I’d never considered before.” Jon went quiet, but it was the sort of quiet he usually got when there was something he wasn’t saying and really ought to.

Ordinarily, Martin would have pried at him, tried to prod him to open up and just be _honest,_ but right about then, he was just too tired. Not physically, mentally. Partly it was the edge of navigating a new place while blind. He’d been at one time intimately familiar with the Archives, and he’d had at least passing familiarity with both Tim’s house and the tunnels, back _before_. But he’d never been to the house they’d just toured before, had no frame of reference, and he’d decided to go without the cane despite Jon’s objections—he was still sort of learning how to use it properly, since it was mostly trial-and-error on his part, and he’d also got it in his head that Helen would probably be the sort of person to look down on someone visibly disabled like that. The fact that he strongly suspected he was right wasn’t helping his mental energy levels. He’d spent the last—God, four months? Had it actually been that long?—surrounded by people he knew, trusted, and loved, for varying definitions of _love,_ and who reciprocated those feelings. Helen Richardson was the first person he’d interacted with outside of the Archival team, and he hadn’t been prepared for the way she’d acted around him. Around _them,_ really, and he wasn’t sure if it was Jon’s appearance or the fact that they were two men in a relationship or both. That, at least, was something he was well used to—he’d been out since he was fourteen and Jon was by no means his first boyfriend, although he hadn’t really dated much since starting to work at the Institute—but it didn’t make it any less upsetting, or exhausting.

And despite that, despite the fact that she was objectively not a particularly nice person, Martin felt a weariness settle over him as he realized they probably weren’t going to be able to save her. They’d known they probably couldn’t prevent every horrible thing that had happened to the people they knew, of course, but both Jon and Martin were determined to do what they could. And since Helen’s initial statement had been rather…imprecise about how long after her experience it had been before she decided (or, as they’d later learned, was pushed) to come to the Institute and give her statement, they’d decided to see what they could do to warn her, as best they could. It probably wasn’t a surprise that it hadn’t worked. Martin didn’t need any special powers, or indeed the ability to see her face, to know that she’d been deeply skeptical of Jon’s questions about the door. He believed her when she said she hadn’t seen it—Jon had said from the beginning that the Distortion had been lucky to grab her on the first go—but he’d kind of hoped she would at least be on the alert for it, and he somehow didn’t think that was going to be the case. The Spiral was going to target her, and now Martin wondered if they’d inadvertently drawn its attention to her. God knew they’d accelerated enough other things in the timeline.

There was also something else preying on his mind, something fairly major, but he knew better than to bring it up.

Finally, Jon spoke again, in a voice so soft Martin almost couldn’t hear it over the engine. “She was selective about what truths she told me, though. It was easier to remember that when I wasn’t alone.”

Even though he knew it wasn’t meant to be a censure of him, Martin felt a stabbing of guilt in his stomach, and he had to swallow hard before he could answer. “You know I wouldn’t have—”

“I know,” Jon said immediately. Martin felt his touch on the back of his hand and instinctively laced their fingers together. “I could have…I’m not blaming you. I didn’t even realize how hard it was until I was in her domain.”

“Alone,” Martin reminded him. That was the sticking point. Jon wouldn’t have been alone when he faced down Helen if he hadn’t realized how badly Martin _didn’t_ want him to see what his domain was like…or more accurately, what Martin _in_ his domain was like.

“I could have waited for you. I could have gone into your domain and tried to find you. I could have taken the path that avoided Helen entirely and dealt with the spiders. I had options, Martin, and I chose to take the option that led me through Helen’s domain alone. That’s not on you.” Jon forestalled any reply Martin might have had by lifting their joined hands and kissing the back of Martin’s gently. “I don’t care what your mother said to you. You don’t bear the responsibility for anyone but yourself.”

Martin managed a smile. “I love you, you know that?”

“I know.” The smile in Jon’s voice was audible. “I love you, too.”

They lapsed into silence for a while. Martin almost thought that was the end of it, until Jon spoke up again. “Your turn.”

“My turn?” Martin repeated, although he was pretty sure he knew what Jon meant.

“Martin. I don’t need the Eye’s power to know that there’s something on your mind.”

Martin considered denying it, but in his heart of hearts he knew he wasn’t going to do that. They were trying so hard to communicate, and they’d been doing really well at it. He wasn’t going to break that now. Best to just say it and get it over with.

“That took a bit more out of me than I thought it would,” he admitted. “Not just dealing with—pre-Distortion Helen, or, you know, trying to maneuver around a space I didn’t know without being able to _see_ it—”

“I told you to bring your cane.”

“I know, but she was having enough trouble being civil to us as it was. Why make it worse? Not like it would have helped all that much.” Martin sighed. “That’s really only part of it, though. Not even the most significant part, if I’m being honest.” He bit his lip. “I just…I didn’t realize how much I wanted that.”

There was a short pause before Jon spoke, sounding confused. “The house? I-I mean, we can probably buy it, if you really want to.”

This time, Martin’s smile was at least genuine, if small. “Look, Peter Lukas might be a bit oblivious when it comes to technology, and he might have more money than he’ll spend in a lifetime, but even _he’d_ notice a sudden payout of two and a half million pounds to a real estate firm.”

Jon snorted with obvious amusement. “Probably closer to three by the time Helen was done working us over.”

“Point still stands. Anyway, it’s not the house I’m talking about.”

“Then what is it?”

Martin took a deep breath. “It’s just—I never thought about a future for us. I mean, yes, of _course_ I knew by the time we’d been in Scotland for a couple weeks that we were going to spend the rest of our lives together. I-it’s just, well, once the world ended? I never really thought about the rest of our lives actually being that long. Yeah, we had the plan to stop Jonah Magnus and save the world and turn things back the way they were, but—let’s be realistic, Jon, I think we both had it in the back of our minds that we were both going to die. I guess I just never considered the possibility of a future beyond that, because I figured we didn’t have one. I figured the best I could hope for was dying with you and there being a life after death we could spend together. Even when we came back here to fix everything, I—I didn’t really think beyond immediate goals. Stop Jonah, save Tim, save Sasha, save the world. I didn’t think about what might be ahead for _us._ But then we were in there talking to Helen, and I was listening to you spin that story for her, and—and something just _clicked,_ you know? I suddenly…it suddenly hit me how much I really _wanted_ all of that. How much I want to have that—that future. That life together. A home. A cat.” He swallowed hard. “Kids.”

Jon didn’t say anything for a long moment, and Martin closed his eyes and lowered his head. He shouldn’t have said all that. He should have just left it at wanting them to have a future. He shouldn’t have mentioned how _right_ everything Jon had lied to Helen about felt. It was too much pressure, and God knew Jon probably didn’t want it, didn’t want to risk…now Jon was going to think he had to let Martin down gently. Hell, there was no guarantee Jon even _wanted_ this to be forever. Martin knew he loved Jon, would love him until there was nothing left of either one of them to love, but what if Jon didn’t feel the same way? Especially since most of their relationship had developed while slogging through a literal hellscape. Could they even survive a future free of conflict? But he was trying to get better about not assuming, so he pressed his lips together to keep from saying anything else and tried to fight back the tears.

At last, Jon spoke. “Do you remember the first person who came to give a live statement when we started working in the Archives?”

Leave it to Jon to change the subject rather than break his heart. And of course Martin remembered Naomi Hearn, but—wait. “Right, the—the civil engineer?” He didn’t trust himself to say much beyond that, still trying to get his emotions under control, but he remembered now. The man had found a book he thought might have been deeply cursed and been sent down to the Archives to give his statement. They’d eventually found out that the leather-bound book with its holographic, eerily styled illustrations and weird stains and symbols scattered throughout it was part of an ill-conceived but ultimately harmless viral marketing scheme for an independent horror movie that tanked at the box office and bankrupted the filmmakers.

“Mm-hmm. He brought his daughter with him, and when I came out to give him space to make his statement privately, you were keeping an eye on her for him. I don’t think you saw me—or Tim, for that matter, when he got back in—but I was…captivated. Didn’t know why then, but I just stood there watching you pacing around the Archives singing nonsense songs.”

“Polish,” Martin said softly. Jon was right—he hadn’t seen anyone else there. He’d offered to watch the little girl so she didn’t interfere with the recordings, or get scared, and he honestly hadn’t noticed another soul until the man came back for her. God, he didn’t even remember the man’s name. The girl’s name was Juliana, though. He remembered that mostly because of the children’s song he’d sung at her that had her name in it.

“I should have known. Still…my point stands. It’s…it’s a memory that’s stuck with me.” Jon exhaled. “You’d make an excellent father, Martin. I think I’d like to see that.”

A sudden weight lifted off of Martin’s chest, and he drew what felt like the first free breath he’d drawn in ages, even though it had really only been a few minutes. “Yeah?”

“Very much so,” Jon replied. “I…you’re right. I never let myself consider the future beyond…well, beyond stopping the Apocalypse. But you deserve so much more. _We_ deserve it. So yes, Martin. To all of it. If— _when_ we survive this, I’d like to have that future with you.”

Their fingers were still laced together. Martin turned his hand over and squeezed Jon’s tightly. “You know, that…was not how I imagined proposing to you.”

Jon’s laugh was a balm on the raw edges of Martin’s nerves—warm, affectionate, and maybe a little surprised. “Technically, you didn’t actually propose. You mentioned a lot of things you wanted, but—”

“Fine, you overly-precise bastard.” Martin laughed, too, then turned his head and hoped like hell he was actually looking at Jon. “Jonathan Sims, will you marry me?”

Jon’s hand tightened around Martin’s, and Martin could have sworn there was a hitch in his voice as he replied, “Yes, Martin Blackwood, I will.”

Martin wasn’t sure he’d ever stop smiling, even if his face hurt. “Sorry I don’t have a ring to give you, but…”

“I think I’ll survive,” Jon said dryly. He was audibly smiling, too. “I love you. So very much.”

“I love you, too. More than anything.”

For a moment, Martin let himself be content. They’d had more and more moments of happiness and comfort since coming back in time, and even in the short month they’d been living in the tunnels, emerging at night to let Jon feed off of statements and try to figure out what to do with the table in Artifact Storage without getting caught by Jonah, there were periods of time where they were almost as happy as they’d been in Scotland. But this moment right here? Sitting in a car with his boyfriend—his _fiancé_ —and talking about a future Martin couldn’t have even imagined was possible even a year ago? This was the closest thing to heaven he thought he’d known since the first time Jon said _I love you._

So, naturally, it all went to hell almost immediately.

Martin couldn’t even really say for sure what happened. He just felt the sudden waves of tension coming off of Jon. Jon’s fingers clenched briefly around Martin’s, then slowly relaxed and slid away. It was all done carefully and naturally, but Martin _knew_ something was wrong. He fought down the instinct to apologize—the lingering remnants of his mother’s conditioning. It wasn’t always his fault and he knew that. He knew he hadn’t done anything wrong. Which meant that whatever was upsetting Jon was something external.

“Jon?” he asked carefully, worried and maybe a little afraid. “What’s wrong?”

Jon took a slow, even breath, which told Martin he’d maybe considered saying _nothing_ before remembering that they were being honest with each other. “We’re being followed.”

“Oh.” Martin rested his hands on his lap and tried to resist the urge to bunch his trousers up in his hands. “By who?”

“It’s a police car. Which I know isn’t all that helpful, all things considered, but I’m reluctant to use the Beholding’s power more than I have to, so I don’t know who’s in it. It could be just a regular police officer on patrol who thinks we’re out of place in the area. It could be a complete coincidence. But it’s beginning to get dark and this isn’t a well-populated area.”

Martin swallowed. “So what are you going to do?”

Jon took another deep breath. “I am going to obey the _exact_ speed limit and—”

The single _whoop_ of the siren made Martin jump, and Jon sighed. “ _Shit.”_

“They want us to pull over, whoever they are,” Martin guessed.

“I am pulling over.” Jon paused. “Martin, just—please let me handle this. Promise me you won’t—just, _please._ ”

Martin fought back his instinctive response and nodded. “Okay, Jon. I promise.”

“Thank you,” Jon said softly.

Martin forced himself to sit still and stare straight ahead, even as he heard the faint squeaking of the window rolling down and Jon’s voice of forced calm. “Good evening, Officer.”

“License and registration,” a voice said. Martin bit back the gasp that instinctively rose in his throat. He _knew_ that voice, even though he hadn’t heard it in a while—low and faintly menacing, unmistakably one Detective Alice “Daisy” Tonner, still part of both the police force and the Hunt.

There was a sound of fumbling, and then a short pause before Daisy said, “Know why I pulled you over?”

Martin could guess, but he’d promised to keep his mouth shut, and he knew why Jon had asked—begged, really. Even with a regular police officer, if Martin mouthed off to them, Jon would likely take the brunt of it. And with Daisy, that would be worse. Jon was likely hoping to protect Martin, but Martin would do whatever he had to in order to keep Jon safe, too.

“I’m afraid I don’t.” Jon was still keeping his voice even, but Martin could hear that it was shaking, just a little.

“Step out of the car.”

Martin stiffened as fear shot through him. _This isn’t a well-populated area._ Was it secluded enough, abandoned enough, that Daisy might do something to Jon? Even with him sitting right there? Quickly, he chastised himself. That wasn’t the Hunt, that would be the Slaughter—purposeless violence, violence for violence’s sake. The Hunt was about the chase, the tracking and following. Prey that did what you wanted it to wasn’t very interesting, and even if Daisy had sensed Jon wasn’t fully human, she wouldn’t hurt him the first time she met him. She would threaten him, let him know she was on to him…

He had to try very hard to keep his breathing even and keep from climbing out of the car himself when he heard Jon’s door shut. The window was still down, so he could hear Jon’s voice, a bit fainter but still audible. “What is this about, D—Officer?”

“You _really_ can’t guess?” Martin had to strain hard to hear Daisy, and he tried to breathe as lightly as possible so he wouldn’t miss anything. “Let’s start with what you’re doing in this neighborhood.”

“We had an appointment to view a house.”

“That I’m sure you can’t afford. Doubt the Magnus Institute pays that well.” There was a faint hint of malicious satisfaction in Daisy’s voice, Martin thought, and she probably had that sharp, smug little smile of hers.

“There’s no law against looking, even if we won’t be able to buy,” Jon said. “A-and there’s always a chance we could manage it together. There’s—there’s a lot we can do together.”

Martin noticed then that Jon was putting slight stress on _we._ Like he was reminding Daisy that he wasn’t alone. He clenched his hands into fists to stop them from shaking as he listened. The knowledge that Daisy was the only person who’d tried to help Jon when Martin couldn’t had made him try to trust her, and he’d thought a lot over the last however long it had been about her lowering her gun and letting Elias live rather than risk Basira dying, but try as he might, he could never shake the memory of Jon standing in that office, disheveled, frightened, and neck still tacky with blood. _This_ Daisy wasn’t _their_ Daisy, the one who’d forced Jon to listen to _The Archers_ to ground him to humanity or asked Basira to find her and kill her once she’d saved the Institute. This was the one who would shoot Jon, or slit his throat, and not lose a moment’s sleep over it. God only knew what she’d do to Martin, even though he was—in theory anyway—human.

“Mm-hmm. Of course,” Daisy replied. “And you certainly didn’t have any…designs on anyone in the neighborhood.”

“I don’t mean harm to anyone.”

“Sure you don’t. Does the _real_ Jonathan Sims know you have his car?”

Martin’s body ran cold. He _knew_ Daisy hadn’t met Jon this quickly after Basira’s first visit to the Archives—she’d come with the third tape—so there was no way she knew the Jon in this timeline either. She couldn’t possibly. How could she know—?

“I _am_ Jonathan Sims,” Jon insisted.

“Uh-huh. And who’s in the car with you?”

“My fiancé.” The pride in Jon’s voice overrode his fear, just for a moment, and Martin’s lips twitched involuntarily. Jon had always taken an inordinate amount of delight in claiming Martin as his boyfriend, regardless of the tone whoever they encountered addressed them in; he should have known Jon would be even more thrilled to tell people they were engaged. Fleetingly, he wondered what the Archival team would think of it, or if they were going to mention it before everything was over. He didn’t think Jon would manage to keep it a secret.

“He have a name?”

“Of course he does.”

A faint growl came from somewhere, and the hair on the back of Martin’s neck stood up. There had been a time when he would have considered his inner animal or daemon or Patronus or whatever you wanted to call it to be some sort of small squeaky mammal, because growing up, whenever he came up against a choice between _fight, flight,_ or _freeze,_ his body inevitably chose to freeze, or more accurately to curl in on itself and fight the urge to cry because that made things worse. Since escaping his mother’s clutches, and even more since becoming part of the Archives, he’d drifted towards a weird blend of _fight_ and _freeze_ that usually manifested in him getting angry and doing something stupid. That growl, though, made him want to hunker down in the grass and pray not to be seen. Not even metaphorically. He shrank back against the seat and swallowed hard, willing Jon with all his heart to _get back in the damn car already._

The sudden sharp rap on the window right next to Martin’s ear made him almost jump out of his skin, and he couldn’t stop his frightened gasp this time. It took him a second to realize he was probably expected to put down his window. He fumbled for the crank and managed to wind it down.

“Step out of the car,” Daisy’s voice ordered.

Martin scrambled to get the safety belt undone, then reached for the car door to open it. He gave a fleeting thought to his cane, but he couldn’t quite remember if he’d brought it with him or left it at Tim’s house when they’d borrowed Past Jon’s car and he didn’t think he had the time to ask. The door suddenly jerked from his hand, nearly sending him tumbling to the ground. He only barely managed to keep himself steady and get out without falling.

_Keep your mouth shut, keep your mouth shut,_ he chanted to himself as he braced himself against the roof of the car. This could still go badly for Jon—for both of them, really, but if Martin mouthed off Daisy was likely to take it out on Jon.

“On the curb,” Daisy ordered.

Martin nodded, making what he hoped were being taken as noises of agreement, and started around the car, keeping one hand on it to make sure he didn’t wander off into the street and get run over. Jon had mentioned it was starting to get dark. Besides, the last thing he wanted was Daisy to think he was trying to run.

“Leave him out of this.” Jon sounded more scared than Martin thought he’d heard him since they’d been separated in the Lonely house. “He hasn’t done—”

“Shut up,” Daisy growled. She—or something, anyway—prodded Martin sharply between the shoulder blades. “Hurry up.”

Martin’s hip slammed into the side of the car. He bit back a grunt of pain and tried to pick up the pace, but moving faster meant he didn’t have time to figure out what was ahead of him and he almost tripped over the curb when he finally reached it. The slap of his hand on the car’s hood echoed loudly—which was good, he supposed, it meant there was something for the sound to echo off of, which meant they weren’t in a completely isolated area—and he pulled himself onto the sidewalk and edged around the car. He bumped into the mirror and stopped moving. Daisy would tell him if she wanted him somewhere else. He hoped.

“Jon?” he whispered as loud as he dared. Hopefully he was still quiet enough to cover the thin edge of panic.

“I’m here, Martin,” Jon whispered back. It wasn’t soft enough to cover _his_ panic, or maybe Martin just knew him well enough to hear it. He doubted that, though. Jon had admitted, simultaneously not long ago and forever ago, that what Daisy had put him through was still one of the most terrifying things he’d experienced, and even though they’d later become friends, it was hard to forget what she’d nearly done. And this was the Daisy who _would_ do that. Add in the fact that Martin was here, and far more vulnerable than Jon was, and it was going to terrify him.

Martin took a deep, steadying breath. He had to hold it together. He _had_ to. If Jon was that scared, the last thing he needed was to know how scared Martin was.

“What’s your name?” Daisy demanded.

“Martin Blackwood,” Martin answered, managing to keep his voice even.

“Oh, _interesting._ I don’t suppose you’ve got any ID on you to prove that.”

Martin pressed his lips together hard for a moment. He might, actually; his wallet was somewhere in one of their bags, unless he’d lost it slogging through the Apocalypse, and they’d made sure to bring everything out of the tunnels with them, just in case Leitner went snooping around and tried to do something. But there would be a lot of digging around involved in that. “Not handy, sorry.”

Daisy’s snort was close enough that the air from it curled against Martin’s cheek, and he flinched. He hadn’t realized she was so nearby. “Of course not. That would be easy, wouldn’t it?”

Martin swallowed back his instinctive response and kept as still as he could. He strained his every sense to listen, but apart from the usual sounds of a late summer evening, he couldn’t hear anything. Daisy could be right next to him, or right in front of him, or right in front of Jon. She could be anywhere, doing anything, and it set his every nerve on edge.

“So,” Daisy said finally. It sounded like she’d moved, but Martin couldn’t quite tell where she was. “The two of you are claiming to be half the staff from the Archives at the Magnus Institute. You’re driving around a tony neighborhood where neither you _nor_ the people you’re pretending to be belong. And you’ve stolen car and ID. If I were to call the Magnus Institute, I wonder what I would learn?”

“Likely nothing. I-it’s well past closing time,” Jon answered. He sounded a little breathless. Something brushed against Martin’s hand, and he almost jumped before his mind registered the familiar feel of the roughness and slight ridges of Jon’s worm-scarred hand. He flexed his fingers slightly, and Jon gripped him like a dying man might grasp a lifeline. Martin rubbed his thumb over the back of Jon’s hand as gently as he could, hoping to give him at least a little comfort.

“Hmm. Then maybe I should reach out directly. Or maybe…” Daisy’s voice shifted slightly, and Jon gave a small, frightened gasp and tightened his grip on Martin’s hand, which set Martin’s heart rate kicking into overdrive. “Maybe I should just handle things now.”

“Y-you wouldn’t.” Jon was obviously trying to sound confident, but the fear overrode everything. “Not here. N-not so close to—people. Whatever I am, Martin isn’t—”

“What gave you that scar?” Daisy demanded.

“I—I have—”

“ _That_ one,” Daisy growled, and Jon let out a choked gurgle that told Martin she’d probably jabbed a finger into his throat. “Looks like something already tried to shut you up.”

“You did,” Jon gasped.

There was a long pause, and Martin heard a faint crunching noise, like Daisy had taken a step back. “What?” she said in a low, dangerous voice.

“Not now.” Jon’s breath was coming in short, panting gasps, like he’d been running—or like when they’d been in Scotland, when he’d woken from the worst of the nightmares. Martin wanted to wrap him up and soothe him, but he couldn’t, not here, not now. “We’re—we’re from the future. We’re here to—to stop something awful from happening.”

“Oh, what, the end of the world?” Was there maybe a little bit of uncertainty in Daisy’s voice?

“Yes. Actually. The world ends and—and so many people died. _You_ died. You—we were friends. Later.” Jon sounded a little desperate. “I-I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true, Daisy, I swear it.”

Daisy inhaled sharply. “ _What did you just call me?_ ”

“D—oh, shit.” If Jon squeezed Martin’s hand any harder, he was going to break Martin’s fingers or his own or both. “I—look, I _told_ you, we knew each other in our timeline. Your name is Detective Alice Tonner, but everyone calls you Daisy. You don’t really tell people why, but i-it’s because of the scar on your back. I—we _know_ you. We’re here to _save_ you. You, and Basira, and—and everyone else.”

The silence stretched on so long that Martin wanted to scream—anything to fill it. He wanted to bundle Jon back into the car and get out of there. He wished, more strongly than he’d wished in ages, that he could _see,_ so he could see to get them away, to know if they were safe, to _make_ them safe. He didn’t know what Daisy was about to do and he couldn’t anticipate it without being able to see her. And of course the Hunt would keep her hidden from anyone who couldn’t see her, so he couldn’t even hear where she might be.

Finally, Daisy growled, “Whoever you are— _whatever_ you are—I’ll let you go. This time. But if we ever cross paths again, monster…you’re mine.”

A door slammed, making Martin jump again. An engine revved, tires squealed, and then it was just the sounds of a summer night and Jon’s desperate bid for air.

“Jon?” Martin managed to maneuver around the mirror and reach for Jon with his free hand.

Jon latched onto Martin even more tightly than he had during the thunderstorm, his arms wrapped around Martin’s neck and his face buried in his chest and his body pressed so close to him it almost hurt. Martin wrapped him up securely in a hug and rocked him back and forth, trying to murmur soothing words, but they got stuck in his throat. He was only just realizing how scared he’d actually been.

“Jon, I’m here, I’m here,” he said instead, clinging to his boyfriend—his _fiancé_ —to reassure himself that he was still there. It had been one thing to hear Jon tell him later about Daisy holding a knife to his throat in the woods, another to see that portrait of her menacing him, but living the moment they’d just lived through…

Martin realized that he’d never truly been afraid of Daisy. Not really. He’d had a hard time trusting her, he’d been angry about what she’d done, or nearly done, to Jon, but he’d never actually been afraid to be in a room with her, even when she’d been in full cop mode all but accusing him of being an accessory after the fact to murder. This was probably the first time Martin really, truly realized how close Jon had come to dying in that forest. How scared he must have been. How hard it must have been to trust her after that, to call her a friend. It was sobering. And humbling. And terrifying as _fuck._

“She still scares me,” Jon whispered into Martin’s shoulder. “I meant what I said, we _were_ friends, I cared about her. I did. I trusted her. But…”

“But she was the only person who could hurt you after the Apocalypse for a reason,” Martin murmured.

“Not the only one. Just the only one who would.”

Martin blinked hard, then decided to unpack that later. “We’re—we’re safe now. For now. We’re safe for now. It’s okay, Jon, we’re both here. We’re here. She won’t—she didn’t—” He pressed a kiss to the top of Jon’s head and tried not to cry.

He couldn’t fall apart. He had to be the strong one. He was good at that, at pushing down his emotions and being the steady one. The hardest part of being with Jon had been learning to lean on Jon too, to let himself have emotions and weaknesses and moments where _he_ was the one being held and comforted. And this was a situation, a tiny part of his brain clinging to rationality told him, where they could, and probably _should_ , lean on each other. They both needed comfort, they both needed reassurance. But Martin had been pushed too far in his fear, and when he went this far, he defaulted into caretaker mode. He could fall apart later, when he was alone and had the time, even though he knew he would never be alone, Mum would make sure of that, and even if he was alone he’d have so much he had to do, there would never be time…

“Let’s get out of here,” Jon choked out.

Martin didn’t want to let go of him, but he eased back anyway. Jon didn’t let go of his hand, either, instead leading him around the car and opening the door for him. Even then, he didn’t let go of Martin’s hand, but climbed into the passenger seat.

“Jon, I _cannot_ drive us,” Martin protested, even though instinct was telling him to do exactly that. _Jon’s upset, he won’t be able to concentrate, you need to get us home safe…_ no, he _needed_ to remember that he was blind and that, even in the throes of a panic attack, Jon would get them back to Tim’s safer than Martin would.

“No, I just—come on.” Jon tugged on Martin’s hand, which he hadn’t let go of, and as Martin ducked under the roof of the car, he heard grunts and rustling noises and realized what was going on. Jon had climbed over the center console from the passenger’s seat rather than let go of Martin’s hand for an instant.

Neither of them bothered with the safety belts, and Jon kept a tight hold of Martin’s hand even as he managed to put the car into gear. They didn’t speak the rest of the drive. Martin couldn’t tell how fast they were going, but it hardly seemed like they’d been driving any time at all before the engine cut out, and then Jon was crawling back across the console and into Martin’s lap.

They clung to each other tightly. Martin could feel Jon shaking, and honestly he wasn’t doing much better himself. He tried to hold back the tears—he didn’t have the right to be scared, not like Jon did, she hadn’t really been threatening _him_ —but then Jon whispered brokenly, “I thought I was going to lose you,” and Martin’s control shattered.

“ _You_ thought—Jon, I thought she was going to—” Martin choked off the words and tightened his arms around Jon, hoping he’d tell him if he was hurting him. “You were—she could have—a-and I couldn’t _see_ her, I didn’t know where she was, I—God, Jon, I’m _sorry_ , I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

“Are _you_ okay?” Jon parried. “I-I couldn’t—when she told you to get out of the car, I—I didn’t want to—I was afraid to Know anything about her, I didn’t want her to sense it and—I know you couldn’t, not really, b-but she’s part of the Hunt and her whole thing is hunting monsters and—oh, God. I was afraid she was going to hurt you to punish _me_ and—a-are you okay?”

Martin tried to figure out how to answer that question and finally said, “She didn’t hurt me. And I asked you first.”

Jon made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I don’t know. I asked how you were because I—I can’t be okay if you’re not okay.”

“Yeah, that goes both ways,” Martin said. He managed a shaky laugh and added, “Weirdly, despite the fact that I’m an absolute mess over here, I’m feeling _better_ than I did before.”

“I-I know. You…you don’t let yourself…” Jon broke off. “I know.”

A long silence settled between them, broken only by Jon’s choked, stuttered breathing as he tried _not_ to burst into tears. Martin could feel the panicked flutter of Jon’s heart in his chest, and he knew he was crying too, but them being together and alive and _safe,_ or at least relatively safe, went a long way towards calming him. He rubbed Jon’s back, grimacing at the unfamiliar feel of thin silk barely masking the ridged scars that still mottled Jon’s back.

“You don’t feel right,” he said without really thinking about it.

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized how they sounded, but before he could take them back, Jon huffed lightly. “Neither do you. L-let’s—if they’re home, m-maybe Tim will let us change back into our regular clothes before we head back. I—I’d rather wear your sweater. I-it makes me feel safe.”

God, how was it possible to love this man any more than he already did? Martin pressed his lips to the top of Jon’s head, then nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

It took a bit of awkward gymnastics for them to get out of the car without letting go of one another, or falling to the ground, and Jon wrapped his arm around Martin’s waist as soon as they were both standing upright. He fished one of their bags out of the backseat—Martin presumed—and the two of them shuffled up to the house like some sort of odd four-legged creature. Their height difference made it hard, but Martin understood. He didn’t want Jon that far away from him, either.

He’d thought they probably still looked fairly presentable, but that idea was dispelled when they stumbled into the kitchen to be greeted by Tim’s shocked and horrified shout of “Jesus _Christ!”_

“Are you all right? What happened?” The only reason Martin knew it was Past Jon asking and not his Jon was because it was coming from the wrong direction.

“Here, sit down,” Past Martin added. “Let me—um, I can get some tea—”

“It’s fine. We’re fine,” Jon said, despite all evidence. “Just—we’re fine. Tim, can we—borrow your room to change?”

It was probably a mark of how worried Tim was that he didn’t reply with something along the lines of _No, you have to strip right here in the kitchen._ “Sure. You know where it is. We’ll—go get comfortable.”

“Thanks, Tim,” Martin said softly as he and Jon headed through the kitchen.

They made it to Tim’s room without too much difficulty, and by the time they reached it, Martin guessed they’d both calmed down enough that they didn’t have to be attached completely—which was good, since that would have made getting changed awkward. That didn’t mean they wanted to be far away from each other, though. Martin sat on the edge of Tim’s bed and listened to Jon rummaging around in the bag for clothes while he undid the first couple of buttons on his too-stiff shirt, then paused. An idea began to form in his head.

When Jon came over and draped a sweater in his lap, Martin reached out and caught Jon’s wrist gently before he could move back. “Will you let me help you?”

He would have given almost anything to be able to see how Jon was looking at him just then. Was it confusion or resignation or annoyance? When Jon spoke, though, it was in a voice that was soft and laden with affection. “Only if you let me help you in return.”

Martin nodded. “I’d like that.”

There was a bit of fumbling and murmured apologizing, but they managed to arrange things so that Martin could undo the buttons on Jon’s shirt while Jon unbuttoned Martin’s. It was something they’d done before, although not since coming back to the past, but Martin remembered the first week they’d been in Scotland when he’d managed to convince Jon to come on a walk with him and they’d been caught in a sudden rainstorm. They’d run back to the safe house breathless and dripping, both of them fussing at the other to get out of their wet clothes before they got pneumonia, and they’d both moved in to help each other at the same time. By the end of it, their cheeks had hurt from laughter and Martin’s shirt was missing two buttons, but since it had been the shirt he’d worn to work the day everything happened—just like the shirt Jon had been wearing had been—they’d agreed it was no great loss.

This felt different. Well, it _was_ different. That had been two men just starting to feel out the edges of their relationship, coming out of a time of stress and uncertainty and into what they’d thought would be a time of peace, struggling to find their place in the world and how they fit in around each other. This was…well, it was two men who’d been through literal hell together and come out the other side, who knew what they were to each other. It was about taking care of each other, but it was also about reassuring themselves that the other was there and whole and well. They took a little more care with getting each other’s shirts off, partly out of respect for the quality of the shirts—although Martin was already silently wagering with himself about whether they’d ever be able to wear them without thinking about Daisy threatening them—and partly because they were both still more scared than they were willing to admit. Martin could tell exactly how scared Jon was when he stepped forward and silently embraced Martin instead of getting dressed again once their button-downs were off.

“Are you all right?” he asked again. His voice was soft and raw.

Martin hugged Jon back, pressing their foreheads together and soaking in the calm that Jon’s presence could always draw in him, no matter the circumstances. He nodded slowly. “Getting there. You?”

“I will be.” Jon shifted the angle and kissed Martin, warmly and tenderly, then pulled back with a small sigh. “Let’s finish getting dressed and go…I don’t know, apologize?”

“I don’t think they’ll let us, but we should probably at least warn them,” Martin said slowly. He was reluctant to let go of Jon, even though they’d both at least stopped shaking. “You know, in case Daisy thinks we’re…actually them?”

“I—I don’t think she does, but you’re right, we should.”

It was probably too warm for sweaters, but the tunnels were underground and made of stone, so they stayed cool year-round. Besides, as Jon had said, the weight was comforting. Martin pulled on the sweater and changed his trousers, then waited while Jon repacked their bag. They were still wrapped around each other when they headed back to meet the others, but at least they were a bit steadier.

That was always the way, though. They were _partners;_ they held one another up, supported one another, steadied and anchored one another. No matter how bad or scary things got, there was nothing they couldn’t face if they held onto one another and stayed together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content warnings:** Police brutality, panic attacks, mentioned manipulation, mentioned past emotional abuse


	26. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon, Martin, and Tim move into their new house...and discover something they really ought to have expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, this chapter isn't as heavy as the last couple were, but there's still a bit in it, so specific content warnings at the end, as (now) per usual. (I still need to go back and add them on the earlier chapters, whoops.)

When Jon’s grandmother passed away peacefully in her sleep, not long after his twenty-fourth birthday, he quickly discovered that her life insurance and savings weren’t enough to cover all the bills that needed to be covered and put the house he’d grown up in on the market. He only vaguely remembers the whole procedure, as he was in something of a state of shock at the time, but he does remember accepting the first offer presented to him despite the realtor’s comments that he could “probably hold out for a bit more” if he wanted. Thus, he’s the only one not really startled at the speed with which he, Martin, and Tim find out that they’ve got the house.

To be clear: He’s not startled at the _speed._ He is, however, startled that they got it. Surely someone must have been willing to pay more for it, been better qualified. But no. They learn their offer has been accepted less than a week after the Primes’ disastrous encounter with Basira’s partner and the closing is scheduled for the following Friday. Martin theorizes that their position at the Magnus Institute gave them some extra clout. Tim jokes that it’s his charismatic personality. Jon frets that Elias might have had something to do with it for nefarious purposes.

Sasha finally does some research and tells them that it’s being sold by a pair of siblings barely out of their teens whose parents died unexpectedly and probably just need the money fast.

Martin doesn’t have much, just the little he managed to bring with him to the Institute when first escaping Jane Prentiss and the few things he’s re-acquired since then, and Jon’s things are still packed up from when he declined to renew the lease on his flat in August, so it’s mostly just Tim who needs to decide what he’s keeping and what he’s ready to part with or needs to replace. It takes them the better part of two Saturdays, but they manage to get everything boxed and sorted in time to move out the last full weekend of September.

The moving-in process is surprisingly fun. Sasha and the Primes even come to help (Tim suggests the latter so that Martin Prime knows his way around the house from the get-go, which is actually really sensible) and they make a party of it. Tim insists on setting up the sound system first, then gets everyone to contribute a certain number of songs to a playlist on some app he has on his phone. He puts it on shuffle and lets it play while they work together on the various rooms.

“Oh, my God,” Sasha moans after the eighth song that she evidently didn’t pick comes on. “Do _any_ of you listen to a single band that’s put out an album since 1984?”

“Yes,” Martin says indignantly, his cheeks coloring slightly.

“Remasters don’t count.”

Martin Prime grins. “None of mine have come up, either.”

“What did you put on?” Sasha asks suspiciously.

She gets her answer a few minutes later when, after shuffle coughs up a Spice Girls song they all tease her mercilessly about, an honest to God _sea shanty_ comes on. Tim and Jon laugh at Sasha’s dramatic, despairing groan, but it’s hard not to respond to the Martins’ enthusiasm as they—surprisingly—harmonize along with the recording while they set up the living room.

They’re almost done assembling the new bed Tim bullied Jon into buying (“You’re not in uni anymore, you don’t need to be sleeping on a futon, and anyway, when was this made, the Thatcher premiership?” “Brown, and shut up, Tim.”), which is the last piece of furniture they need to put together, when there’s a sound from the front door—two firm, solid knocks, audible all the way upstairs. Jon nearly drops the screwdriver as his heart kicks against his ribs. It’s stupid, and he _knows_ it’s stupid, but two knocks like that always makes him think of _that book._

Tim makes a noise in the back of his throat. “God, hope the music isn’t too loud.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Martin says, but he sounds uncertain. “I-I mean, it’s been ages.”

Jon pushes himself to his feet. “I’ll check.”

He hurries out of the bedroom before anyone can comment on the clear break in his voice. He is, and there is no way to deny it to himself, legitimately afraid of what might be outside. The likelihood of it being a being of another entity is slim, but…well, there was Mr. Spider, and Jane Prentiss knocked on Martin’s door more than a few times to keep him off-balance, so there’s always the chance. It’s something he feels he can deal with, though, so he heads out to face it.

He does not, however, expect to open the door and be faced with what is either a small child or a casserole dish with tennis shoes.

“Hello,” a tiny voice says brightly from behind the dish. There’s a bit of shifting, and then two big brown eyes and a mass of curls appear over the rim. “I’ve brought you a cake.”

Jon will deny to his dying day that those words freeze his blood in his veins and make his heart stutter to a stop, but since this might actually _be_ his dying day, he’ll be lying if he tries. His lips part, but no sound comes out.

“And a casserole, too,” the child continues, completely oblivious to Jon’s unwarranted panic attack. “That’s not as much fun, though, but Nan says it’s important to eat good, hearty food when you’ve been doing lots of work and that cake shouldn’t be a whole meal. _I_ think there’s no point in being a grown-up if you can’t eat whatever you want, but…” The child heaves an enormous, dramatic sigh that seems too large for such a small body. “My Nan’s very, very old, and you don’t get to be old if you don’t do _something_ right, so she must know what she’s talking about. Anyway, we made the casserole with lots and lots of cheese and she said that was okay, so at least it’s a _little_ better.”

“Ah—thank you?” Jon manages. “H-here, let me…take that.”

He manages to extract the casserole dish, which certainly feels as if it’s laden with cheese; it weighs the proverbial ton. Quite possibly a literal one. It’s solid enough to anchor Jon to reality, though, and he studies his benefactor. The child can’t be more than seven or eight, at the most, with a round face and limbs hidden in an oversized, threadbare sweater that looks like it’s been handed down through more than a few generations. Dangling from one arm is a wicker basket that does indeed appear to contain a cake.

“It’s a chocolate cake with marshmallow frosting,” the child says. “I tried to write ‘Welcome to the neighborhood’ on it, but I didn’t put the tip on the piping bag right and it came off, so now it’s just a mess, but it’ll taste just as good, I promise. My Nan makes the _best_ cakes.”

Jon smiles in spite of himself. “I don’t think I have enough hands to take it from you now. Would you mind bringing it into the kitchen for me?”

“Oh, sure!” The child practically hops over the threshold. “I always wanted to see what this house was like on the inside. Tibby used to babysit for me sometimes, but she always came over to our house, never me coming over here. Nan says it’s better that way, and Tibby always said it was laid out exactly like all the other houses, but it’s not the same as seeing it for yourself. Firsthand knowledge is best, that’s what _I_ think. What do you think?”

“I—I think I agree with you,” Jon says. He also feels a bit like he’s staring at his younger self. “I assume you live in one of the other houses on the row?”

“Two doors down,” the child agrees cheerfully. “With the window boxes. My Nan likes to garden a bit, but she can’t bend over so much anymore, so Toby set up the window boxes for her a couple years ago.”

“And, uh, who is…Toby?”

“Oh, sorry, I thought you knew. Toby McGill. He and Tibby—that’s his sister Tabitha, but everyone calls her Tibby—they were the ones selling this house after their parents died. He’s at Surrey University now and he says he’s going to stay out there when it’s all said and done, and Tibby got a job on a _boat._ ” The child sounds deeply impressed. “I want to be a sailor someday, too. Can you imagine getting to see the whole wide world by water and getting _paid_ for it, too? I’d never want to leave. I told Tibby she has to save a spot on the crew for me and she laughed and promised, so I can’t wait. I’m going as soon as I grow up. I’m not going to university. You don’t need to go to university for _everything,_ you know. I know Nan really wants me to go ‘cause Mum didn’t and neither did Dad and she doesn’t want me turning out like them, but you can turn out well even if you don’t go to university, can’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Jon says gravely. He casts an involuntary glance in the direction of the stairs, thinking of Martin. “One of my housemates didn’t go to university, and he’s one of the most brilliant people I know.”

“How many of you live here, anyway?”

“Just three of us.” Jon has no idea how much this child has seen and how many people he knows are in the house at the moment.

“Oh. There used to be three of us in my house, too.” The child scuffs a toe against the carpet just before they step into the kitchen. “And then there was going to be four, but Mum died and the baby did, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says softly, feeling a pang. “I grew up with my grandmother, too.”

The child looks up at Jon and smiles, in such a way that Jon can’t help but smile back. “And you turned out okay.”

“Debatable,” Jon says. He sets the casserole dish on the counter. “I’m Jon, by the way. Jonathan Sims.”

“I’m Charlie. Charlie Cane.” The child smiles up at him and hands over the basket. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. Tell your grandmother we said thank you. I don’t know that any of us will have the energy to cook tonight. We’ll bring back the dishes tomorrow.”

“There’s no hurry. Nan doesn’t go anywhere.” Charlie flashes Jon a grin that’s missing two teeth, then turns and waves to the doorway. Jon glances up to see Martin, looking somewhere between worried and amused. “Hi! I’m Charlie Cane. Welcome to the neighborhood. Do you live here, too?”

“Um…yes. I’m Martin Blackwood. It’s…nice to meet you?” Martin raises an eyebrow at Jon.

“Charlie and his grandmother made us a casserole,” Jon says, gesturing at the counter. “And a cake.”

“That’s very nice of you. Thank you.” Martin smiles at Charlie and winks, although Jon doesn’t quite understand why.

“Welcome.” Charlie’s beaming smile could probably light the house for a week. “I’d best go before Nan thinks I’m doing something stupid again. See you later!”

He’s out the front door before Jon can respond, or even blink. He looks back to Martin, who isn’t even trying to hide his amusement. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine, Jon. We were just wondering if _you_ were okay. You were gone for a while.”

Jon gestures vaguely at the front door. “I don’t think that child has many people to talk to. Or at least not many people who will listen to him.”

Martin snorts. “I think you’ve got yourself a new best friend.”

Jon almost wants to say something flippant like _Just what I need,_ but thinking on it, he actually doesn’t mind all that much. “Considering how much I would have given to have an adult pay that kind of attention to me when I was his age, I think I can handle that.”

Martin reaches over and pulls Jon into a hug. Jon lets himself be comforted for a moment, then extricates himself gently and smiles. “Come on. Let’s see if the others are ready to eat.”

As it turns out, the others finished putting together the bed and even made it while Jon talked to Charlie, so they’re all too happy to come into the kitchen for a hearty meal. It’s exactly as cheese-laden as Charlie promised. Jon recounts his conversation, to general amusement, although something flickers briefly across Martin Prime’s face and Jon Prime shoots Jon an understanding and slightly frightened look when he repeats Charlie’s opening words. If anyone else notices, they give no sign of it.

Tim lets the music keep playing while they eat. Jon mostly tunes it out, no pun intended, and he rather suspects the others do too. But just as they’re scraping their plates clean—the food is delicious, and Tim declares he’s going to try and charm Charlie’s grandmother out of the recipe—Martin Prime suddenly tilts his head to one side, as if trying to catch a sound. A smile twitches at his lips, and he stands up and holds out a hand to Jon Prime. “May I?”

Jon Prime looks startled for a split-second, then smiles—no, _grins—_ and places his hand in Martin Prime’s. He lets Martin Prime pull him away from the table and into his arms, and the two of them start slow-dancing.

Jon pauses, fork suspended over his plate, and watches them. Jon Prime lets Martin Prime lead him in a simple box step, one arm draped casually over Martin Prime’s shoulder, while Martin Prime’s hand rests firmly at his waist; their other fingers are laced together in a way that would make it difficult to telegraph intended moves if they didn’t—probably—know each other so well. The space between them is so little it’s a wonder they don’t constantly trip over each other’s feet, and before long their foreheads touch. The song is gentle and plaintive, encouragement from one partner to the other to trust and relax and allow the first to take care of the second, a promise that the second person won’t be considered weak or lesser if they allow themselves to be comforted.

_I promise you’ll be safe here in my arms…_

Martin Prime lifts his arm and spins Jon Prime around gently, and when Jon Prime comes back into the closed frame, he leans his head against the shoulder where his hand isn’t resting and closes his eyes. Martin Prime pulls him closer and rests his cheek alongside Jon Prime’s as they continue dancing. It’s one of the most intimate and romantic things Jon has ever seen, and he almost has to look away from it.

Almost. Not quite. Something keeps him drawn, and there’s a tiny part of Jon’s brain that suggests it probably isn’t _just_ the pleasure at seeing someone who’s basically him safe and happy and in love mixed with the vague sense of longing for something like that—maybe not that _exactly,_ but something like it. It may also be that watching the Primes slow dancing means he doesn’t have to look at anyone else.

The song plays itself out. Martin Prime turns his head slightly; Jon Prime turns his at the same time, and their lips meet gently in the middle. This time Jon _does_ look away. He’s never quite been able to figure out how he feels about kissing, to be honest; it’s one of the things that sent his and Georgie’s relationship down in flames, was the fact that he always acted _like you think I’ve got poison in my lip gloss_ , according to her. But he finds himself wondering for a moment what Martin’s lips would feel like against his, if they’d be as soft and warm as the rest of him. If it might make a difference to kiss Martin instead of Georgie, or Meredith, or Kelly. And that’s not a question he’s comfortable asking himself just then, let alone trying to answer.

The scrape of a chair breaks his attention, and he looks up to see the Primes sitting down like nothing happened, although they’re still holding hands. Tim clears his throat. “Who wants cake?”

The cake is, as promised, a bit of a mess—it looks like someone tried to tease out the blob created by the icing tip popping off with a toothpick or something, but the resultant design looks like the pictures someone showed Jon once of a web woven by a spider that had been fed caffeine, and the fact that the icing is bright red doesn’t help—but it is absolutely delicious.

Afterward, Tim and Jon store the leftovers while Martin and Sasha start on the dishes. Jon Prime glances at the kitchen clock and touches Martin Prime on the shoulder. “We should probably go. The later it gets, the more likely that…someone might cruise by the Institute, and I’d rather not risk that.”

Martin Prime squeezes Jon Prime’s hand gently, and Jon swallows on the sudden surge of nausea. They haven’t seen anything of Detective Tonner, and Basira didn’t say anything about her when she showed up last week to switch out the tapes, but the memory of the Primes’ faces when they stumbled back to Tim’s place to change and return his car is a hard one to shake. Even though Jon Prime swears he and Daisy eventually became friends, it’s the _eventually_ that sticks out, and Jon isn’t sure what he’ll do if Daisy turns up at the Institute. It’s also obvious that the Primes are more afraid of her than they’re letting on.

Tim opens his mouth, probably to invite them to spend the night or something, but Sasha beats him to it. “Can you wait a few minutes? I’d rather not walk to the tube station by myself, if it comes to that, and I think you said there’s an entrance to the tunnels near there.”

Jon Prime frowns slightly. “I…don’t think I did, but there is.”

“We’ll walk with you, Sasha,” Martin Prime assures her.

Tim sighs theatrically. “I feel a little better, which is a relative statement not to be taken as approval.”

“Your objection is duly noted.” Sasha hands Martin a plate to dry.

All too soon, everything is cleaned up, just as the playlist comes to an end, and there’s really no way of stalling them further. There’s a round of hugs and see-you-Mondays, and then Sasha and the Primes head out the door, leaving Jon, Martin, and Tim alone in their new house.

It’s not _that_ late, comparatively, so Jon suggests a card game. They’ve played most nights since Sasha went back to sleeping in her own flat; they’ve played a couple of games of Rummy or Go Fish, and Tim once tried to teach Jon and Martin a game he learned from his grandparents that uses a forty-card deck (Martin picked it up quickly, Jon did not), but most of the time they play Crazy Eights. Tim declares that they’re going to keep playing until either he or Jon or both manage to overtake Martin’s score, which is clearly going to be an impossible task, as he’s up by nearly a thousand points and consistently wins at least three or four games a night. Still, they give it a valiant effort. After Martin manages to go out while both Tim _and_ Jon still have an eight each in their hand, though, they decide to call it quits for one night.

“Someday I’ll figure out how you keep doing that,” Jon says, shuffling the deck lightly before putting it back in the box.

Martin shrugs. “Practice, I guess? I used to play with my granddad a lot when I was younger. We kept a running total, too, and I think I was up three thousand points or so when he died.”

Tim gives a low whistle. “How old were you?”

“Nine. We’d been playing pretty regularly since I was five. At least one game every time I went to visit.”

Jon thinks back to the conversation he and Martin had in Tim’s kitchen the morning after Prentiss’s attack. “Is this the grandfather who had the cherry trees?”

“You remembered.” Martin looks pleased. “Yeah, he was my mum’s dad. I never met my dad’s family, that I remember anyway.” He pauses. “You, uh, you told Charlie you were raised by your grandmother. Was that…?”

Jon didn’t know Martin was there, but he’s kind of glad he doesn’t have to figure out how to bring it up. “My father’s mother. She was…formidable. My father died when I was two, from an accidental fall, and my mother died a couple years later. Surgery complications.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin says softly. “That must have been hard on you.”

“Harder on my grandmother, I think. I was barely old enough to remember them.” All Jon remembers of his father is his laugh, and he’s fairly certain that most of his memories of his mother come from his aunt.

Tim leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “Is she still around? Your grandmother?”

Jon shakes his head. “She died just before I started working at the Institute. What about yours, Tim?”

“My dad’s dad is the only grandparent still around. I think.” Tim worries at his lower lip with his teeth for a moment. “I’d like to think someone would call me if something happened, but I don’t know.”

Martin hums sympathetically. “Is he…in a home?”

“Not as far as I know. Last I heard, he was still living with my parents. Moved in when Granny died, just after I left for university.” Tim sighs. “We’re not…close. After Danny…”

Jon reaches over and touches Tim’s arm gently. “It must be hard on them, losing a son. No parent expects to outlive their child.”

“That’s just it. Mum refuses to believe he’s dead.” Tim smiles weakly. “No body, you know? Dad isn’t sure, but he also thinks I know more than I’ve told them. Grandfather all but accused me of having a hand in Danny’s disappearance.”

“What?” Jon blinks, shocked. “How could anyone think you’d—you would _never._ ”

“I know, but…well, Dad’s family was always a bit conservative, blue collar and all that, and I’m…well, me. I think that’s why Dad encouraged my hiking and camping and all that. Hoped it would knock some ‘sense’ into me,” Tim says with a wry twist of his lips. “Once I came out as bi, though, I think they decided there was no hope left for me. It just got worse after Danny died.”

Martin’s expressive face closes down, and Jon’s stomach lurches. This is the most they’ve talked about their families in…ever, he thinks, but from the little bits of information Martin—and Martin Prime, for that matter—have let slip, Jon has formed a very unfavorable impression of Martin’s mother. He’s always kind of had a hazy idea that Tim’s family situation was better, especially after he heard the pride in his voice when he talked about Danny when giving his statement, and finding out that it wasn’t much better than theirs…

“How old were you?” he asks, not sure why. “When you—told them.”

“Seventeen. There was a guy I’d been seeing—nothing serious, really, but we had fun together—and we went out for Valentine’s Day. My parents were confused because they knew my girlfriend and I had just broken up before Christmas and I hadn’t mentioned another girl, so I told them about Steve.” Tim gets quiet for a second. “Mum cried. Dad just…told me to stop upsetting my mother and never brought it up again. Not until Grandfather started in on me.”

Jon swallows. “You’ve a great deal more courage than I have. I—I never admitted to my grandmother that I ever had any interest in boys, let alone dated one.”

“Only one? You’re missing out.” Tim’s grin is a pale echo of his usual one, but it is at least genuine. “How ‘bout you, Martin?”

“A few.” Martin relaxes with a visible effort that makes Jon’s heart ache. “Been out since I was fourteen. Mum reacted…about as well as she reacted any other time I told her something she didn’t like or did something she wasn’t expecting. I never brought anyone home to meet her or…really talked to her about my dating, and she only ever brought it up in relation to herself. Like saying it was a good thing there wasn’t any risk of me passing on any of my numerous undesirable traits to a helpless child.”

“I don’t think your mum understands what ‘bisexual’ means,” Tim points out.

“Probably not, but it doesn’t matter. I’m gay.” Martin grimaces. “I’m also ace, so no risk there anyway, but…”

Jon wants to say _any child would be fortunate to count you as a father_ or _I can’t think of a single undesirable trait about you,_ but what actually comes out is, “Ace?”

“Uh, asexual. It’s—I don’t…get attracted like that. Romance, sure, aesthetic stuff and all that, but not…” Martin gestures vaguely. “Tried it anyway, for a couple of guys I was with, but i-it didn’t go well.”

Jon’s world view shifts abruptly on its axis. Tim, though, looks suddenly worried. “Are you okay? They didn’t—”

“No, no,” Martin says quickly. “It wasn’t—I just don’t like it. That’s all.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Never bothered telling Mum that part. She wouldn’t…I’ve done enough damage.”

Tim pulls Martin into a quick one-armed hug, and Jon reaches across the table to squeeze his hand as gently as he can, but they change the subject after that.

They end up sitting up for a while in their new living room, relaxing. Tim props his feet up in the recliner and works on a crossword; Jon curls up at one end of the sofa with a book he’s been meaning to read for years that Jon Prime assures him he’ll love; Martin sits at the other end and knits. It about bowled Jon over completely when he learned that Martin _made_ most of the sweaters he wears, but the sight and sound of him working away has become increasingly familiar in the last few weeks, especially after the Primes and the rest of the crew collaborated to get him an array of needles and knitting wool in all colors of the rainbow for his birthday. Jon usually finds the gentle clicking of the needles soothing, but tonight it’s just a hair distracting, and he keeps glancing up from the page to watch Martin’s fingers as they expertly manipulate the yarn or Tim tap the eraser of his pencil thoughtfully against his jaw while he contemplates an answer. He’s not even quite sure what he’s looking at.

Finally, Tim lays down his puzzle with a sigh. “I think I’m gonna turn in,” he says, sounding oddly reluctant. “Long day and all that.”

“Yeah, I’m just gonna—” Martin works a couple more stitches and folds up his project. “Probably a good stopping place for tonight.”

Jon considers saying he’s going to stay in the living room and finish the chapter he’s on, but if he’s being completely honest, he’s been on the same page for however long it’s been and hasn’t taken in a single word. Silently, he slides the scrap of paper he’s currently using as a bookmark back between the pages and closes the book. “Well. Good night, then.”

“’Night, Jon.”

The bedrooms are all upstairs, two on one side and one on the other with the bathroom handy, and the three of them wish each other goodnight again before disappearing into their rooms. Jon closes the door and looks around the room, _his_ room.

There’s not much to it, to be honest. A nightstand, a dresser, a battered desk he’s had since he was a child, a lamp and the bed. He sets the book on top of the desk and changes into his comfortable sleep clothes, then crawls into the bed and pulls the covers up over his shoulders.

It’s…odd. No, not odd. Jon can’t quite think of the right word for it. But the sheets feel unfamiliar against his skin, and they don’t smell right, either, probably because they’re new. The mattress that felt perfectly comfortable when he tested it out in the store doesn’t seem to afford the same comfort now, and he wonders if the floor model has simply had much of the stiffness tested out of it over time. Even the pillows, which he _did_ retain from his old bedroom setup, seem determined to thwart his attempts to find a comfortable position.

He rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, arm draped over his midsection. He won’t fall asleep like this, he’s always been a side-sleeper, but his mind is a seething roil of emotions and he needs to get his thoughts under control before he can even have a hope of getting comfortable enough to sleep, he guesses.

_Asexual._ Jon probes at the word, at what it describes. _I don’t get attracted like that. I just don’t like it._ Honestly, until meeting Georgie, Jon had no idea that sort of attraction really existed; he thought it was just something out of the lurid romance novels his grandmother favored and he’d read once or twice in sheer desperation. It was something she’d wanted, though, so he’d tried a few times, but his efforts hadn’t satisfied her and he never really saw what all the fuss was about. He can take it or leave it, preferably the latter.

He never knew there was a word for it.

Suddenly, he wants to talk to Martin about it, about how he realized, how he _knew._ Where he found the word. If there are many more like—well, like them, he supposes. If that’s one of the reasons he was reluctant to tell Jon how he felt. He wants to ask about Martin’s experiences, if they were bad just because his body didn’t want them or for some other reason. A part of him also wants to cry from sheer relief. He _isn’t_ broken. There’s nothing wrong with him. Well, not in that respect, anyway.

He sighs heavily and rolls onto his side again, plumping the pillows and curling one arm around them. They’re too flat, he thinks idly, too soft and yielding. Which is odd, because that’s never bothered him before. He can’t seem to get warm, either, which is also bizarre because it’s been an unusually mild day for late September and he’s under the duvet he’s had for years, which suddenly seems too light and insubstantial. The room is too quiet and still. It all feels… _wrong,_ somehow.

Jon closes his eyes and stubbornly tries to force sleep, to no avail. The sense of _wrongness_ pervades his being, curling through him and keeping him tethered to consciousness. He runs through the list of problems he seems to be having and tries to come up with which one might be keeping him awake. The only thing he can think of is the unfamiliar mattress. Everything else is exactly the way it was in his old flat.

_And when was the last time you slept there?_ The thought hits him all of a sudden, and his eyes snap open. He forgot. The last time he slept in his apartment was the night before Jane Prentiss attacked the Institute. Ever since then, he’s been sleeping in Tim’s living room…or in Tim’s bed. With the others.

That’s all it is. He isn’t used to the silence of being alone. He’s not used to not knowing, right away, exactly where Tim and Martin are and if they’re safe. He’ll just go and check on them, see that they’re safe, and he’ll be able to get to sleep just fine.

He throws back the covers, slides his glasses back on, and heads into the hallway. Jon somehow ended up in the room by the bathroom, while Tim and Martin are on the other side of the hallway. Martin’s room is first, though, so Jon heads there. He’s as careful as he can be. Martin is probably asleep by now. He definitely seemed tired while they were still in the living room, and Jon wonders if he lingered because the other two were still sitting down there. It makes him feel slightly guilty, like he should have called it a night earlier so Martin can get some sleep. And after all, they _did_ have a very emotionally draining conversation, which probably exhausted him as well. All that runs through Jon’s mind as he slowly, slowly eases the door open and peers around it to see into Martin’s room.

It’s sparsely furnished; nothing but a bed and one of those flimsy pop-up cloth jobs bisected into cubes, which is serving as his dresser. Martin’s laptop and phone sit on the floor, both connected to their chargers. The bed is mussed slightly and shows signs of having been occupied, but Jon’s heart rate accelerates when he looks at it. It’s empty.

There’s no sign of a struggle, he tells himself, and he heard nothing, so surely everything is _fine._ Martin’s probably just in the bathroom, or downstairs getting a glass of water or something. It’s fine. Everything’s _fine._ Jon will just…go check on Tim and Tim will be fine and then he’ll go find Martin and make sure he’s fine and it…will…be… _fine._ He pulls the door closed and turns to Tim’s room.

The door is slightly ajar, and there’s a faint glow coming from the room. Jon hesitates, then taps lightly on the door three times before easing it open. Tim is sitting up on the bed, cross-legged and leaning forward slightly. And—Jon’s shoulders slump in relief—Martin is there, too, on the edge of the bed, one leg hanging off the side and the other tucked underneath him. They’re talking quietly, but both obviously exhausted. They look up at the sound of the door opening and watch Jon stand in the doorway. He opens his mouth, then realizes he doesn’t know what to say and closes it again.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Martin asks gently. The circles under his eyes are almost black.

“No,” Jon admits. “I—I just wanted to—” He breaks off, still not sure what to say.

Wordlessly, Tim holds out a hand. Jon lets the bedroom door shut behind him as he comes forward and takes it. Martin wraps an arm around him from behind, and the two of them pull Jon onto the bed and into a lying-down position. Tim rolls over and snaps off the lamp by his bed, then pulls the covers up over all three of them. Jon manages to reach down and snag the middle to help.

“Better,” Tim murmurs.

It’s not a question, but Jon hums in agreement anyway. Trying for levity, he says, “Shame to waste money on new beds, though.”

“We’ll be able to sleep there eventually,” Martin says. Jon only realizes how much stress was in his voice when it’s drastically lessened. “At some point we’ll probably want the space. But for now, there’s this.”

“For now, there’s this,” Jon agrees. He tilts his head back briefly to rest it against Martin’s shoulder, and Martin scoots in closer.

Tim does, too, the two of them sandwiching Jon securely between them. “Get some sleep,” he says. “It’ll be all right tomorrow.”

Jon yawns and closes his eyes, and it doesn’t really surprise him when he falls asleep straightaway. The nightmares are as present as ever, but in the morning, he can almost fool himself into believing they weren’t so bad.

Almost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content warnings:** Implied/referenced homophobia, internalized acephobia, panic attacks.
> 
> If you're curious, the song the Primes dance to is "Here In My Arms" by Helen Reddy, which you can (and should) listen to [here.](https://open.spotify.com/track/4Z4QackuJEOciu2qELJ19q?si=YDXF_Q4bR9W1jpjEfn3W0A) It's one of the cornerstones of my JonMartin playlist and is so them it hurts.
> 
> Also, just as a heads-up: Thursday's chapter might be up a bit late. My little brother's birthday is tomorrow (he's turning _30,_ Jesus H. Christ), but we work 8am-5pm and he works 5pm-1am, so we have to wait and celebrate with him the next time he's off, which happens to be Thursday. So yeah, depending on when we get done with that, I'll have the chapter up. ^_^


	27. Martin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tragedy is not prevented, and Jon does not take it well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How we feelin', folks? 8) Hoo boy. ~~Every week that I end an episode thinking "that hurt but it wasn't as bad as I was afraid it was going to be" really just makes me MORE afraid for the next week tbh.~~
> 
> Content warnings at the end of the chapter. Please let me know if I've missed anything.

Jon has always been bad about actually stopping what he’s doing and getting lunch, but ever since Jane Prentiss came into their lives it’s only gotten worse. Sometimes Martin or Tim, or both, can coax him out to join them, but too often it’s met with a _you go ahead, I just want to finish this up_ and the next thing they know it’s six o’clock and Jon hasn’t eaten since breakfast and has _just one more thing_ to finish up before they can go. (He always insists that the others don’t have to wait for him, but that’s a lie; the one time they did all leave and let Jon stay to finish up what he was working on, they wound up having to call him, threaten to come back to the Institute and get him, and keep talking to him while he packed his things and got out the door.) They’ve taken to solving the issue by picking up an extra sandwich or something and bringing it back for Jon when they go to lunch.

Such is the case today. There’s a curry house opening about a ten-minute walk from the Institute that Tim wants to try, but he doesn’t want to go alone; Sasha isn’t all that fond of spicy food, so Martin agrees to go with him. Martin pops in to ask Jon if he wants to go, but Jon appears absorbed in his work and waves him off. Sasha promises to text if anything happens, and he and Tim set off.

It’s the first of October, the temperature hanging at about thirteen degrees following a rainy morning. The air still smells damp and earthy, and worms litter the sidewalks. Martin’s better about that than he used to be—when he was first going on walks with the Primes, during his initial recovery period, they learned very quickly that he needed to give it a good twenty-four hours after the rain stopped before he was able to go out without panicking about the worms—but still, he finds himself watching where he puts his feet _very_ carefully.

Tim has to notice, but doesn’t mention it. Martin’s come to realize over the last year or so that that’s very much how Tim is; he’ll tease, sure, but never about something important. He does loop his arm through Martin’s, though. “Maybe I should start bringing a pack of cards with me to work or something. I bet we can drag Jon out of his office long enough to eat if we give him the chance to whittle away at your point lead, too.”

“I hope so. I’m pretty sure what he’s working on is just the stuff that can be recorded on the laptop, but…I worry. You know?” Martin thinks about the intense look Jon gets when they’re reading over something that they all suspect will turn out to be real. He doesn’t want to lose Jon, but the words stick in his throat.

“I know,” Tim says quietly. “I do, too.” He bumps Martin’s shoulder with his own. “Worry about you, too. I’ve seen the look on your face when you’re researching some of this stuff.”

“I don’t…really?” Martin’s stomach lurches. “I-I mean, it’s…it’s hard to walk away from and…”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed, but…never mind.” Tim falls silent.

Martin decides to wait him out and focuses on his footsteps until they get to the curry house. Because it’s a Saturday (and _why_ they’re working on a Saturday is another issue entirely and allegedly involves a scheduling issue with some work needing to be done), and because it’s the grand opening, they expect a bit of a crowd; because of the rain, it’s not as bad as it could be, but there’s still quite a line and at first Martin thinks they’ll have to take their meals to go, which wouldn’t be a bad thing, honestly. He figures maybe they can get their orders, head back to the Institute, and convince Jon to stop and eat with them if they aren’t taking him out of the Archives. But a table opens up in the corner just as they get their order, and they manage to nab it before anyone else can.

Tim doesn’t go back to his original topic while they’re eating, which, honestly, Martin should have expected. They talk a little bit about the statements they’re investigating, most of which are probably going to end up in the Discredited section, and some about what they’re going to do for Jon’s birthday next week. Although they dance around the issue a bit since they’re in public, they both agree that they’ve somehow got to do something for Jon Prime as well. The memory of the sheer delight on Martin Prime’s face when they included him in Martin’s birthday celebration is hard to forget.

“You know they’d only just had their birthdays when…everything happened, right?” Martin asks as they head back to the Institute. The sun is making a valiant effort to poke through the clouds, and most of the worms seem to have either managed to clear the sidewalks or been removed, but he’s still watching the ground instead of what’s ahead of him and trusting Tim to tell him before he runs into someone.

“Who?” Tim asks, sounding confused.

“The Primes. Martin Prime told me on…our birthday? Jon Prime’s thirty-first was while they were in Scotland, like a week and a half, maybe, before the world ended.”

Tim hums. “What about Martin Prime’s?”

Martin hesitates. “It was, um, before that.”

“While he was still working with Peter Lukas,” Tim says flatly. Martin doesn’t respond. “Great. So he was—ugh. I wish I’d known that beforehand, I’d’ve…I don’t know, tried to do more for him. Being alone on your birthday—”

“Is something we’re used to,” Martin interrupts, a bit more sharply than he means to. “God, Tim, do you know when the last time was someone even bothered to _acknowledge_ my birthday before last year? I was _eight._ Mum sure as hell wasn’t going to say anything about it, and my only friends were from school. Since my birthday was right in the middle of the summer holiday, I didn’t even get the teacher acknowledging it in class. Martin Prime’s twenty-ninth birthday happened less than a month after Jane Prentiss attacked, when Jon Prime and Tim Prime were still out on medical leave and it was just him and the Not-Sasha. His thirtieth birthday happened less than a month after—” His voice cracks and he can’t bring himself to say it. _After your counterpart died. After Jon Prime wound up in a coma._

Tim stops dead on the sidewalk, mid-step. Martin pulls to a stop, too, and looks up at him. Before he can say anything, Tim turns and pulls him into a tight hug. Martin freezes for a second, then relaxes into it and hugs Tim back.

“I’m sorry,” Tim says in his ear. “You deserve better than that. We’ll do better for you. I promise.”

Martin exhales. “Thanks, Tim.”

They separate and head back into the Archives. Sasha looks up at them and smiles wryly when she sees the takeout box in Martin’s hand. “Might have to wait on that a bit. He’s got someone in there.”

Tim curses under his breath. “And nobody to cut the energy.”

“I offered to sit in with them both, but she insisted it would be fine. I couldn’t push it.” Sasha waves a hand at her computer. “Besides, I’m waiting on some reports to compile on—”

There’s a yell of pain from the direction of Jon’s office. Martin’s head jerks up, and the takeout container slips from his hand to the ground. He doesn’t even notice if it falls open or not, too busy rushing for the office door, Tim a half-step behind him. His fingers touch the knob just as there’s a second, louder yell.

“Jon!” Martin flings the door open and bursts into the room. Jon is standing behind his desk, head bowed and shoulders bent, one hand braced against the surface and the other pressing hard against his abdomen.

Jon looks up, his face tight and his eyes wide with pain and terror. “Michael,” he gasps. “H-he was here.”

“Oh, God.” Martin is at Jon’s side in a flash and reaching for him. He starts to pull him into a hug, then freezes when Jon lets out a small, distressed noise. “What happened? What did—are you hurt?”

“H-he—” Jon shifts his hand slightly, and now Martin can see something wet and red on his fingers. Blood. Oh, that’s not good. “His fingers—he—”

“Tim!” Martin barks. “We need the first aid kit. _Now._ ”

“On it.” Tim turns on his heel and practically flies out of the office.

Martin guides Jon back into his chair and kneels down in front of him. “Here, let me see,” he says as calmly as he can, reaching for Jon’s hand.

Jon only presses his hand tighter against his side, despite the obvious pain it causes him to do so, so Martin stops moving. “He took her,” he gasps out.

“Took who?” Martin asks, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“Th-the woman. Helen Richardson. She was—she was making her statement, I told her we believed her, she left and—and I thought—and then he was _there_ and—” Jon swallows. He’s starting to tremble. “It was the wrong door, Martin. She went out the wrong door. He _took_ her and I couldn’t—”

“Easy, Jon. Easy,” Martin says soothingly. “It’s okay.”

“It’s _not!_ I should have—” Jon breaks off with a whimper. He’s really worked up, and Martin is worried about it.

He’s more worried about the injury, though, so when Tim returns an instant later with the first aid kit in hand, Martin immediately sets about unpacking the gauze and alcohol wipes.

“Okay, Jon,” he says. “I’m going to need to take a look at this. Tim, can you hold his other hand? I know this is going to hurt, but I need you to trust me, okay? I want to help.”

He’s talking to Jon like a frightened child, he knows that, but right now Jon _looks_ like a frightened child, and anyway, he nods and takes Tim’s hand. Martin carefully pulls Jon’s hand away from his side. The fussy old-man cardigan Tim’s been teasing him about since day one is torn and wet to the touch, and when Martin shifts it aside, there’s already a dark stain on the turtleneck underneath. He tries to be gentle about lifting it up, but Jon cries out when he pulls the shirt away from the wound and tightens his grip on Tim’s hand.

“Sorry, sorry!” Martin says, feeling guilty. Tim murmurs soothing nonsense at Jon, squeezing his hand and wrapping his free arm around Jon’s shoulders. Jon’s breathing heavily, and one look at what Martin can see tells him that stopping the bleeding is more important than cleaning up the skin. He grabs a pad of gauze, folds it over, and presses it to where he’s pretty sure the wound is. Jon gives a strangled noise, but doesn’t flinch away.

The gauze soaks through far too quickly, and Martin shakes his head worriedly. He manages to unwrap a second piece of gauze and press it on top of the first without any difficulty, but securing it is going to be a problem. “Here, Jon, I need your help, okay? Come hold this for a second. Can you do that for me?”

Jon’s fingers are trembling as they brush Martin’s. Martin switches their positions as quickly as he can, helping Jon apply the right amount of pressure, then reaches over and grabs the medical tape. He rips off a couple of strips, then nudges Jon’s hand out of the way and secures the gauze as best he can. It’s not perfect, but it’ll hold long enough.

“You’re going to need stitches, I think,” Martin tells him, standing up and holding out a hand. “The clinic’s only a few blocks away. Do you think you can walk?”

Jon stares at Martin’s hand for a moment, then nods mutely and accepts it. He wobbles and winces as he gets to his feet, then stumbles against Martin’s side. He’s shaking all over, and Martin is _really_ worried.

He looks over at Tim, who bites his lip hard before saying quietly, “Call if you need backup. I’ll—I’ll stay here and help Sasha handle Elias if he turns up.”

“The tape—statement—” Jon gasps and gestures at the silent recorder on his desk.

“We’ll listen to it,” Tim promises. “It’ll be okay, boss.”

“I’ll call,” Martin assures him. He wraps his arm around Jon’s shoulders and leads him out of the Archives.

Three blocks over and one block up. It really isn’t a long walk to the clinic, but Martin isn’t completely sure Jon’s going to make it at first without being carried. He keeps stumbling over his feet and stopping for breath. Martin encourages him, but he’s about three seconds away from scooping him up bridal-style and carrying him the rest of the way to the clinic. Somehow, though, they make it. Martin texts Tim to let him know they made it safely, then opens the door and steps in.

It takes Martin a second to recognize the person behind the reception desk; they’ve changed their hair, a green bouffant with a bleach-blond stripe just above black roots and the sides shaved, and Martin’s pretty sure there’s an extra cartilage piercing that wasn’t there before, but it could just be a brighter stud than usual.

“Hey, Zig,” he says in greeting as he ushers Jon up to the counter. “Love the hair.”

Zig looks up and breaks into a grin. “Martin, hey! Long time no see…whoa.”

“Worms,” Martin says succinctly. “Bit much for you all. It was also the middle of the night.”

“Valid.” Zig peers at Jon, who is managing to look both bewildered and terrified, then back at Martin. “Work-related?”

“Yep.”

“On a _Saturday?_ ”

Martin shrugs. “They’re doing work on Monday that we apparently can’t manage around, so Elias shifted the weekend. There are some questions I just don’t ask anymore.”

“Fair enough.” Zig waves in the direction of the door. “You know the drill. What am I warning the doc about?”

“Stab wound. Thanks, Zig.” Martin steers Jon through the mercifully empty waiting room. It usually is when he comes through here, but whenever there are people waiting, someone _inevitably_ starts complaining and Zig—or whoever’s working reception—always has to lie and say they have an appointment.

Jon doesn’t say anything as Martin leads him on the familiar route—through the heavy blue door, turn left at the corridor with a nod to the nurse sitting behind the desk, three doors down and the last one on the right. The room is on the smallish side, with enough room for the exam table, a small counter with a sink, two overhead cupboards and a set of drawers under the counter. Two people fit comfortably, three is a bit of a squeeze, but Martin for all his size fits neatly enough into the corner and out of the way…usually. Today, though, Jon clings to his arm almost tight enough to hurt, and Martin knows he isn’t going anywhere.

“It’s okay, Jon,” he says gently. He’s still afraid, there’s no denying that, but he’s also a bit more relaxed now that they’re here. “I’m not going anywhere, okay? Not unless you tell me to.”

“No—stay—” Jon sounds slightly panicked. He closes his eyes and takes a couple deep breaths.

“I will. I promise. C’mon, come sit down. The doctor will be here soon.” Martin keeps his voice as low and soothing as he can as he leads Jon to the exam table and helps him settle onto it. “You’ll like him. He’s good at what he does.”

“You’ve…been here before,” Jon manages. He’s either in a lot of pain or he’s lost a lot more blood than is optimal, and Martin kind of hopes it’s the former so they don’t have to sit here while Jon gets a transfusion.

“Mm-hmm. Remember the day Basira dropped off that first tape, when I told you Diana used to send me on whatever errand she could think of to get me out of the library for a bit?” Jon nods, and Martin continues, “Well, one of those things was bringing people here. Whenever someone in Artifact Storage gets hurt beyond the help of a first aid kit, this is the nearest place. The staff’s really good, the care is excellent, and they…”

“Don’t ask questions?”

“Don’t question answers.”

Before Martin can elaborate, the door opens, and a silver-haired man in a white coat who looks like he was sent straight from Central Casting comes in, shutting the door behind him. He smiles when he sees Martin. “Ah, Martin, good. We were starting to wonder if something had happened to you.”

“I got shifted to the Archives,” Martin explains. “They tend to…leave us to our own devices.”

“Well, they need to stop doing that. Everyone’s so damned _close_ with their secrets. It makes things remarkably difficult.” The doctor turns to Jon with a warm smile. “Hello. I’m Dr. Early. What seems to be the trouble today, Mr…?”

“Uh, Sims. Jonathan Sims.” Jon blinks, looking a bit dazed, and glances helplessly at Martin.

“Mr. Sims, then. I hear you’ve a stab wound?” Dr. Early lifts an eyebrow in Martin’s direction. “That’s a new one. You must’ve got a really _interesting_ artifact in. Did it explode or did you just not notice how close you were to the pointy bits?”

“It was a person this time. Jon’s the Head Archivist,” Martin says. “We don’t deal so much with…things.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

Martin glances at Jon, who still looks a little stunned. “Um, unexpected visit from a being that thrives on the fear of confusion, currently in the shape of a blond man with knives for fingers? I…don’t know the details beyond that, sorry.”

“Mm. Well, Mr. Sims, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you.” Dr. Early looks Jon over and gentles his voice. “Can you please tell me what happened?”

“Uh—” Jon looks worriedly up at Martin again.

Martin squeezes Jon’s hand. “I usually just tell him exactly what happened. It’s okay.”

“It’s a lot harder to treat someone if I’m lied to about the cause,” Dr. Early explains. “Or given vague, incomplete explanations. Which is why we’ve all been extremely annoyed that they’ve been sending people who are either protective of their work or afraid of being sent to the loony bin. I can assure you, we don’t commit people from the Magnus Institute, and we’re not interested in spreading your research around, either. Martin here is very straightforward and honest and it’s a great help. We’ve missed him a lot.”

“I can understand that,” Jon murmurs, and Martin’s face gets hot. “A—a man came to—h-he appeared and—” He breaks off. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t—I can’t—”

Dr. Early looks at Martin, obviously concerned. Jon can’t seem to get his thoughts straight, which the good doctor obviously thinks means he’s more badly injured than he is. Martin knows Jon, though, and he knows he’s just scared and confused. He takes both of Jon’s hands in his own. Maybe he’ll talk to Martin.

“Jon,” he says, gently but forcefully. “Look at me, okay? Focus on me. **What happened?** ”

Jon’s eyes clear—he’s still frightened, but at least he’s focusing, which Martin appreciates. “Helen Richardson—she came to make a statement, she encountered Michael after all. I told her I believed her and we would do what we could to protect her, and then she left. I was getting ready to come out and tell Sasha I was heading down into the tunnels, to—to tell you and Tim not to worry about me—when I heard a voice asking me if I was who I was pretending to be. There was a man standing there and I started to say he didn’t belong there, but then I realized who he was and asked if he was Michael. He said he was, and—I said Helen had escaped, and he said she hadn’t, that there had never been a door there. I tried to get him to give her back, and when he said no, I stood up, I was—I don’t know what I was going to do, _something,_ but he just—reached out and dug his finger into my side, just like Sasha described in her statement, but—it wasn’t to help, it was to hurt. It _did_ hurt, and I—I asked why he was doing this, and he—he didn’t _answer,_ he just…” His voice cracks. “I-I couldn’t stop him, Martin, I couldn’t _save_ her—”

“Hey, easy, easy,” Martin says as soothingly as he can, even as his heart sinks. “It’s okay, Jon. You did your best. It’s not your fault. Tell me what his fingers looked like.”

“U-um, like—like knives. Long and skinny a-and sharp.”

“Were they straight, jagged…?”

“Straight,” Jon says after a short pause. “Like—like my paper knife, the one I—they weren’t metal, they were bone.”

Martin glances up at Dr. Early, who makes a motion like he’s washing his hands. Martin understands. “Were they clean?”

“I—I didn’t notice? They were yellow. Like old bone. I-I didn’t see any dirt or, or blood, but…”

“All right. Let me take a look at it,” Dr. Early says calmly. “Where is it?”

Martin steps to one side and releases one of Jon’s hands; Jon clings too tightly to the other for him to let go and indicates the injured spot with his now-free hand. Dr. Early carefully lifts the shirt and inspects the double layer of gauze. “I’m going to need to peel this off, Mr. Sims. This might hurt a bit.”

It does, judging by the way Jon’s fingers tighten around Martin’s as he hisses at the tug against his skin; Martin silently gives thanks that the Primes bullied him into taking care of himself properly and his wounds healed well, because otherwise this would hurt more than it does. As it is, he can bear up silently as Dr. Early removes the tape as carefully as he can and lifts the gauze from the wound. Fresh blood wells up as soon as it’s clear, and Jon screws his eyes up tightly.

“Mm, yes, this is going to need a few stitches.” Dr. Early speaks calmly. “Go ahead and take your shirt off and lie back. I’ll go get my supplies and be right back. Do you have any allergies, any medications you’re currently taking, any medical conditions that might interfere with the anesthesia?”

“Don’t—” Jon’s eyes pop open and nearly burst out of his skull, and his breathing starts getting shallow and panicky. “No, please, don’t—”

“All right, we can do this without anesthesia,” Dr. Early says without batting an eyelash. He’s used to the quirks and foibles of the Magnus Institute’s staff, and he’s probably used to people panicking, too. “I’ll go get my supplies and be right back.” He meets Martin’s eyes, flicks a finger at the exam table, and vanishes.

Martin exhales. “Okay, Jon. Let’s get you lying down so we can get this taken care of.”

“Don’t leave.” The raw panic in Jon’s expression is almost painful to look at.

Martin almost leans over to brush a kiss against Jon’s forehead, then catches himself at the last second and simply touches his own forehead to Jon’s briefly. “I’m not going anywhere, Jon. I promise. Might have to stand over there so I’m out of the way, but—”

“N-no—I can’t—I can’t be alone when—” Jon tightens his grip on Martin’s hand. “Th-the last time…I almost didn’t wake up. I don’t—I need someone to—”

That is _not_ information Martin wants to have, let alone information he wants to gain right then, although distantly he supposes he’d need to know it at some point. “You won’t be alone. I promise. I’ll be _right_ here. Doc will probably let me hold your hand, I just might have to—to be behind your head or something. We’ll see. Let’s just get you lying down, okay?”

Jon exhales and nods. “Okay.”

Martin helps Jon take off his ruined cardigan and turtleneck, then lie back against the paper-covered exam table. He tries to focus on Jon’s face so he doesn’t have to look at the gash in his side. “It’s going to be okay,” he tells Jon, and he’s not sure if that’s a promise or a threat, but he means it with every fiber of his being. Everything will be okay if he personally has to take down every entity and being that serves them armed with nothing but a corkscrew and his mediocre poetry.

Jon keeps his eyes fixed on Martin’s, even as Dr. Early comes back into the room with his little kit. He takes one look at the two of them and doesn’t even bother to shoo Martin into the corner. “Great, you’re all set. This might hurt a bit, but I’ll try to be as quick and careful as I can.”

The wound is a bit bigger than Jon implied, once Dr. Early has irrigated it, but at least the edges appear to be clean. Jon occasionally lets out a small, breathy whimper, but for the most part just clings to Martin’s hand, while Martin rubs his thumb soothingly against Jon’s skin. While Dr. Early works, he asks Martin about his scars, and Martin readily tells him about Jane Prentiss and the worms. The fear in Jon’s eyes never goes away, but it doesn’t get worse either.

“All finished,” Dr. Early says at last. “You can sit up now, Mr. Sims. Keep the area clean and try not to agitate it. You can come back here or go to your regular doctor in about a week to have the stitches removed.”

“Thank you,” Jon says softly.

“Anything for a friend of Martin’s.” Dr. Early flashes Martin a smile as he tries not to blush. “We’ll send the bill to the Institute as usual. Do take care, both of you.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Martin says. Dr. Early gives him a wink, collects his supplies, and heads out the door.

Martin helps Jon sit up, gently but firmly stopping him from touching the row of sutures punctuating his abdomen. He starts to hand him his shirt, then pauses, looking at the tear and the bloodstain. “Think this shirt might be a wash.”

“I never liked that color,” Jon whispers, but sighs and reaches for it anyway. “I—I can’t—it’s too cold to go shirtless.”

“Wait, here.” Martin takes off his sweater—he’s got another shirt on underneath it, so it’s fine—and bundles Jon into it before he can protest. He’s so used to seeing Jon Prime wearing Martin Prime’s sweaters that he expects this will be the same, but somehow it isn’t, because this is _Jon_ and it’s _his_ sweater, and even though he tries to remind himself it’s just for convenience’s sake, he can’t deny that it does something to his heart to see Jon, still shaking and vulnerable, huddled in the very first sweater Martin ever completed all on his own.

“Thank you.” Jon looks up at Martin, his eyes huge.

“Of course.” Martin puts an arm around Jon’s shoulders. “You ready?”

Jon nods and lets Martin lead him out of the exam room. Zig gives them a wave and a smile as they head out the door, which Martin returns.

It’s not _that_ cold outside; it’s actually probably the warmest it’s been all day, but there’s a bit of a breeze going that keeps it cool. Martin has enough body fat that he’ll be all right, though, so he concentrates on keeping Jon from blowing away and moving in the right direction. Jon’s pretty pliable, tucked close against Martin’s side, and they’re definitely moving better than they were when they left the Institute, for which Martin is incredibly thankful, especially when the clouds thicken and it starts raining again just before they get back. Martin shields Jon with his body and takes the brunt of the wet, although it’s fortunately not too bad and they get through the Archive door with little more than a sprinkle.

Tim must have been watching the door, because he’s right there almost before they make it all the way down the steps. He grins a little when he sees Jon in Martin’s sweater, but there’s still worry in his eyes. “Hey, boss. All better?”

Jon shakes his head mutely, and Tim’s smile vanishes. Martin decides to blame the chill that runs down his spine on his slightly damp cambric shirt. “Jon, what’s wrong? Where are you hurt?”

“No, not—” Jon wraps his arms around his midsection and tucks his chin against his chest, eyes closed and looking absolutely miserable. “I-it’s my fault, I—I couldn’t—”

“Hey.” Martin pulls Jon into a hug and glances up at Tim, who instantly joins in. They’ve done this a lot lately, the three of them, a small part of his brain muses. Whenever one of them—Jon or Tim, really—has a bit of a breakdown, can’t be strong enough, the other two gently pen them in and do their best to comfort. He pushes the thought aside for the moment. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t ask to get hurt.”

“No, Helen, I—I couldn’t—I should have been able to stop her. It’s my fault,” Jon whispers, balling a hand into Martin’s shirt. “I let Michael get her and I could have saved her.”

“You couldn’t have,” Tim says, gently but firmly. “The Primes tried to warn her and she still fell for it.”

“But I-I knew, I _should_ have known, the door was all wrong, and he’s right, there’s never been a door on that wall, I-I didn’t even notice…God, I thought Jon Prime didn’t notice because he was so—so paranoid, but I _wasn’t,_ I was paying attention the whole time and he _still_ got her…”

“Jon,” Martin says, half scolding and half pleading. Jon’s beginning to—there’s no other word for it—spiral and if they don’t divert it he’s going to break. “You did everything you could. We all know that. You couldn’t have saved her any more than you could have saved some of the people in these other statements. It’s not your fault. I promise. It’s not your fault any more than it’s mine, or Tim’s.”

Jon looks up at Martin. His eyes shine with unshed tears. “Y-you weren’t even here.”

“Exactly,” Tim says, obviously picking up on Martin’s thoughts, and when had they come to know each other so well? “If we’d been thinking about it, we’d have asked the Primes _when_ Helen Richardson came, and we’d have made sure to be here all day so we could have helped. We could have all sat in with her while she made her statement, and surely _one_ of us would have noticed the door was wrong. Or held the right door for her or something.”

Martin takes a risk and runs his hand through Jon’s hair; Jon leans slightly into the touch like a cat. “And it’s not like we would have been able to keep Michael from _ever_ taking her. We can’t guard her all the time. How would you have felt if she’d made it out of the Institute safely, and you’d called her to follow up on the statement and found out she was gone?”

“At least the last thing she saw was a friendly face,” Tim points out softly. “At least this way she wasn’t alone.”

Jon closes his eyes and sags in their embrace. “She wasn’t,” he agrees. “But that’s _worse._ I-I should have walked her out.”

Martin inhales sharply, and when he looks over Jon’s head he sees the same stark fear in Tim’s eyes he feels in his own as both of them contemplate the possibility of Jon accidentally opening Michael’s door, stepping through it, getting lost in those corridors. He tries to keep his voice from shaking as he says, “And if that just meant both of you were in there? What then?”

Jon simply repeats, “I should have done more.”

And there’s really nothing either Tim or Martin can do right now to convince him otherwise, so they settle for holding him until he stops shaking so badly, then coaxing him to sit down while Tim reheats the curry for him. He claims it’s good, and Martin believes him, but it doesn’t mean they stop worrying.

Especially not when Jon refuses to let anyone else open a single door for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:** Blood, mention of violence, panic attacks, implied/mentioned past emotional abuse, medical treatment


	28. Jon Prime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Primes have a near miss with someone in the tunnels who shouldn't be there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [jaz_hands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaz_hands/pseuds/jaz_hands), who has been eagerly anticipating the on-screen appearance of Our Favorite Asshole. I know this is probably slightly less than you were hoping for, but it's early days yet.
> 
> Content warnings, such as they are, at the end. Let me know if you think I missed any.

“It’s _not_ your fault, Jon,” Martin said for probably the twelfth time in as many hours.

“I know.” Jon sighed as he abandoned his scan of the shelves and crossed back over to where his fiancé sat, patiently waiting for him. “That doesn’t mean I don’t feel guilty.”

Martin raised an eyebrow. “About Helen or about Past You?”

“You know me so well.” Jon settled himself on the ground and folded his arms on Martin’s knee, resting his head on them. Martin’s hand immediately came up to stroke his hair. “I honestly never expected us to be able to save Helen, in the end, but I-I had hoped the Distortion would leave the others alone.”

Sasha had been the one to come down into the tunnels and alert the two of them that Helen Richardson had made her appearance and disappearance. Jon and Martin had risked coming above ground with her to make sure the other three were all right. Past Jon had been twitchy and nervous, which made _Jon_ nervous, and both Tim and Past Martin had been hovering in a way that made his heart ache as much as it made him smile to see. He was also strangely comforted by the sight of Past Jon draped in a sweater that was obviously Past Martin’s. But ever since then, Jon had been wondering if there was more he could have done to prevent it from happening, or at least divert it.

Martin shook his head slowly. “That was never really an option. He’s still…we didn’t go back far enough to save Michael Shelley, so he’s going to be angry. He’s still going to want revenge against the Archivist, and unfortunately that was always going to be Past You.”

“You know, it seems a bit silly to keep calling them Past Us,” Jon mused idly. It wasn’t exactly _hard_ for him to think clearly with Martin’s fingers gently combing his scalp, but it certainly sapped any desire he might have had to think about anything else. “Technically, we’re in _their_ time. They are the present and we are the future.”

“I mean…technically we’re all in the present now. The future we came from doesn’t exist anymore, right?”

“I refuse to have that discussion again,” Jon said, with a bit of humor. They’d had a lighthearted debate about time travel one night in Scotland, which had reached no conclusion other than Martin’s heartfelt declaration that the only way to create a timeline where he didn’t love Jon was to remove him from it entirely, and even then he didn’t like the universe’s chances. It seemed a lot more weighty now. “But it doesn’t matter. I don’t think—I think the only way forward is the old-fashioned way. One day at a time.”

Martin smiled down at him. “I’m okay with that, actually.”

“Mm, yes, I didn’t imagine you’d be in that much of a hurry to go back to the Apocalypse.”

“Not what I mean, Jon. I mean…you know, as horrible as these years were? All things considered, I’m looking forward to living them again. _With_ you this time, instead of just…alongside you. Hand in hand, walking into a future so bright even I can almost see it.”

Jon couldn’t help the smile that curled almost to his ears as he leaned back into Martin’s hand. “You should write a poem around that.”

“I’m saving it for our wedding vows.”

“Now how am I supposed to follow _that_ up?”

Martin laughed. For a moment, Jon could almost imagine things were, well, _normal,_ that they were just an ordinary couple discussing their wedding plans and that they could look forward to a future where the biggest thing they would have to worry about was their teenager being out past curfew. He wasn’t stupid. Stopping Jonah, stopping the Apocalypse, wouldn’t remove the entities from existence. They would always be out there. And while the rituals would collapse on their own…mostly…Jon knew they would likely spend the rest of their lives working to ensure that nobody else ever figured out a ritual that would work. The fears would be a part of their lives for as long as they lived them, which meant there would always be something worse than normal human cares to worry them. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t have those cares, too.

He was about to say something to that effect when Martin’s hand stilled, a few strands of hair tangled around his fingers. Jon was about to ask what was wrong when he, too, heard it—a small sound, caught in a perfect moment of silence. The faintest scuff of shoe against stone. Someone was coming down the stairs.

“Jon?” Martin kept his voice to a whisper. He didn’t sound afraid, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t reason to be.

Jon hesitated. He could reach out with the Eye’s powers, and he was _fairly_ certain he wouldn’t get caught, but…no. He got to his feet and tugged at Martin’s hand. Martin, thank God, complied without question, standing up and staying close to Jon as he led him, quickly and quietly, through the Archives. He lifted the trapdoor and nudged Martin down the steps, then followed and closed it as silently as he could.

Martin was waiting for him at the foot of the steps and hugged Jon close when Jon slid an arm around his waist. “Who was it?”

“No clue. I didn’t want to risk it, just in case…” Jon stiffened and glanced up the stairs as awareness slid over him—a drop of water forcing its way past the door he’d once spoken of to Melanie, what seemed like a lifetime ago. “Come on.”

Jon all but dragged Martin away from the foot of the stairs, to the first room along the hall where they had set up camp. Thankfully, they hadn’t broken their habit of packing everything away any time they were going to be out for more than a few minutes, ready for a quick getaway if needed, so it was the work of a second to grab the bags and stow them against the wall in a place so that, should someone push the door open, they would remain hidden in the gap left between the door and the corner. Martin stood where Jon had left him. “What’s going on?”

“Whoever it is, they’ll be down here in a second,” Jon whispered. He took Martin’s hand. “I don’t know who it is, but I don’t trust them. I doubt it’s someone who would wish us well.”

Martin hummed in understanding. “So what are we going to do?”

“There’s only one thing I can think of.” Jon clicked off his torch and poked his head out into the corridor. “We’re going to have to stay a step ahead of them. Somehow.”

It was the _somehow_ that bothered him. Sound traveled oddly in the tunnels; sometimes things echoed, other times they didn’t. If whoever was coming down was making an effort to move silently, they may not be able to track their movements. And Jon couldn’t risk a light, couldn’t risk being spotted. It could have been a police officer—Basira or Daisy—even though the tunnels had long ago been cleared as a crime scene; on the other hand, if they’d cleaned up the CCTV footage, they might be down looking for additional clues. It could be the Not-Them, if it had taken over someone’s body and was down looking for Leitner, and really, it was too much to hope that the Not-Them would stay confined in the table forever; even if it wasn’t being studied, it would take someone, and Jon couldn’t imagine who. It could, possibly, be someone like Rosie—someone simply burning with curiosity who wanted to see what the tunnels were like. It could even potentially be a workman who discovered the trapdoor by accident and was making sure there was no work to be done underneath the floor.

Speculation wasn’t going to be helpful. Jon shook his head minutely and tugged Martin’s hand, leading him out into the tunnels proper.

Jon could see the faintest hint of light from the steps, meaning whoever it was had a torch; it was getting closer, but they had time. He turned away from the stairs and started down the hallway. They hadn’t gone far before the darkness swallowed them entirely. Jon cursed under his breath, wondering if he could use his abilities from the Eye and Know the right way to go.

“Four more steps and then a right turn,” Martin breathed in his ear, and Jon remembered that Martin had been counting steps as he went. He probably had a mental map of these tunnels that put Jon’s to shame.

“You’d best lead,” he muttered back.

Martin tightened his grip on Jon’s hand, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he simply moved forward to take point.

Jon kept glancing over his shoulder, trusting Martin to lead him safely. He wasn’t sure how much of a lead they had, nor was he sure where the person following them would head. Obviously whoever it was wasn’t looking for them specifically, unless the Eye was out to get them—which was possible—but still, Jon didn’t feel _hunted._ Which meant it likely wasn’t Daisy. He bit back the urge to groan.

“Shh,” Martin suddenly hissed urgently, stopping. Jon stopped, too, and listened. This time he heard it—solid, purposeful steps. Whoever was following them wasn’t particularly worrying about staying hidden, and they weren’t moving slowly, either. Which…was probably not a good thing.

“Shit,” Jon hissed. He looked over his shoulder and could just see the edges of a pool of light. “They’re coming.”

“In here.” Martin’s hand tugged Jon forward, then half-shoved him through what Jon felt was a narrow space. A moment later Martin’s arms were tight around Jon, pulling him close to his wide, soft chest.

“Where are we?” Jon whispered.

“One of the rooms without a door.” There was a faint rustling noise, and Jon guessed Martin was pressing his back against the wall. “It sounds like…they’re not looking in the rooms. We should be safe here for a moment.”

“And then we can get behind them,” Jon completed.

Martin hushed Jon again; before Jon could think about why, he noticed the faintest hint of light sparkling off the tunnel floor. Whoever was out there, they were close.

Jon pressed closer to Martin, burying his face in Martin’s shoulder. One of Martin’s hands came up to cup the back of his head as his other arm curled tighter around Jon’s waist, and Jon felt Martin’s cheek press against the top of his head. He clung tightly to his fiancé and held his breath. If someone was down there with a purpose, it wasn’t likely they would be coming into this specific room, but there was always the chance. Hopefully, if someone did catch them, he’d be able to pretend to be his younger self, and whoever it was wouldn’t notice that his hair was too long, that Martin’s had too much grey in it, that the wrong one of them was scarred…

The footsteps got louder, then—thankfully—started to fade again. Jon eased up his grip on Martin’s sweater and cautiously let out his breath in a silent rush of air. He looked up in Martin’s direction and reached up to touch his cheek lightly. In the darkness, he felt Martin nod and understood what it meant. He stepped carefully out of the circle of Martin’s arms and peered out through the doorway.

The circle of light was moving away from them in a steady, purposeful manner. To Jon’s surprise, he could see from there that it wasn’t a torch, but rather, an old-fashioned lantern, its flickering flame making the shadows dance on the wall. Suspicious. Disturbing. Odd.

Jon tugged on Martin’s hand, and together they tiptoed into the hallway. Martin let Jon lead without comment; likely he’d realized Jon could see the light. Unlike the other person, they _were_ trying to be quiet, but Jon could still move fairly quickly and silently. It helped that they were both wearing tennis shoes, whereas the person ahead of them was wearing dress shoes. Expensive ones, too, Jon guessed. They tapped against the stone of the tunnels, not loudly but enough to be noticeable if they strained.

There was a junction up ahead, one Jon vaguely remembered his past self exploring, meaning it was likely marked. Sure enough, whoever was ahead of them stopped at a corner and raised the lantern to study the arrow on the wall. Its light caught the person full in the face, and Jon flattened against the wall, pressing the hand not holding Martin’s tightly against his mouth to stifle his gasp of shock.

It was the face of Elias Bouchard.

Jon’s mind raced. This made no _sense._ Jonah couldn’t see into the tunnels; they were a huge blind spot to him. He had to be even more tightly bound to the Eye than Jon was, which meant that coming down here put him at a disadvantage, too. As far as Jon knew, Jonah had only been down into the tunnels a couple of times during his tenure as the Archivist—to stage Gertrude’s body, and later to be present when Martin made his choice not to throw his lot in with Peter Lukas. To come down here, to go anywhere near the Panopticon…

That was it, Jon suddenly realized. He was looking to see how close Past Jon’s explorations had taken him. How close he’d come to the center of everything, to finding Jonah Magnus’ original body. Because if Past Jon stumbled upon it too soon, it would ruin everything. If the Not-Sasha had found it, it would have been bad as well…and what if Leitner had found it? Not that Jonah knew he was down here, but still.

Jonah was setting off again. Jon shook his head and tugged Martin closer. “It’s Jonah,” he whispered, as softly as he could. “Come on.”

Martin followed without a sound. If he hadn’t been holding Jon’s hand tightly, Jon might not have known he was there. They crept after Jonah as he strode purposefully through the tunnels, as though he knew where he was going. Of course he knew where he was going. It was _his_ body, after all. Like Jon using his rib as an anchor, although he doubted now that had actually been as powerful a lure as he thought; it was the tapes, the tapes and Martin, that drew him out in the end. But Jonah…that was different. He was probably bound to his body, or drawn to it. Or he’d just memorized the route over the last two centuries.

Briefly, Jon considered the possibility that Jurgen Leitner’s manipulations had thrown Jonah’s path off, but he set that aside and kept following.

Jon lost track of the turns they took and hoped Martin was paying attention, or that they were following the arrows Past Jon made that first time he came down, when he went looking for them. He hadn’t explored further, although Jon was pretty sure that was going to change sooner rather than later, but for now he seemed content to trust them when they said that what was in the tunnels posed no threat to him. It wasn’t _technically_ a lie.

Jonah came to a halt, raising the lantern again, and Jon pressed Martin flat against the wall as he watched. It was the ring of worms first Tim and later Jon had seen in their timeline, just as Jon remembered it—huge, eating its way into the stone, the space between it soft to the touch. Tentatively, lips pressed in a thin line, Jonah reached out and pressed his fingertips to the stone. He did so several times, his brows knitting together, and then he lifted the lantern and looked around, scanning the other walls.

It hit Jon all of a sudden that he was looking for more of Past Jon’s arrows. He was looking to see if Past Jon had made it this far, to see if he had found this place, maybe gotten suspicious enough to prod. If he would be back. This place was important to Jonah and it _had_ to be because it was the way to the Panopticon. Was that what was inside the ring of desiccated worms? The doorway Jonah thought he had sealed up centuries before? Or… _did_ it stay sealed? Was that where Jonah’s little ritual, whatever it actually entailed, to switch eyes with his chosen victims took place? (For the first time since he’d learned about that particular fact, a small part of Jon’s brain wondered what happened to the _old_ bodies when Jonah moved on, if it took place prior to the host’s death or after, but he pushed that aside.)

After a few moments, Jonah’s shoulders slumped in evident relief, and he nodded, lowering the lantern. He was satisfied. His body was safe. His plan was still intact.

For a moment, Jon realized that he was staring down a golden opportunity. Jonah was in the tunnels. He was cut off from some—not all, but some—of his power. And he’d never had the same powers Jon had anyway. He was also distracted by his worries about discovery. He was _here,_ right in front of Jon, with no witnesses other than Martin, who certainly wouldn’t object. It would be the work of a moment to enact their plan now, to step forward and unleash the power of the Ceaseless Watcher on this man who had brought agony on so many, who had really, in the end, done _so little_ to actually serve the Eye. He could turn Jonah’s words back on himself, take him out now, save the world—save their friends.

He stared at Jonah, feeling himself tremble. The memory of the last time he had seen Jonah Magnus came to him—those carefully curated words designed to cut him down to _nothing_ in a way that Peter Lukas would have envied, the cold fury that flashed briefly in those grey eyes before they went back to their usual calm, placid, watchful state when Martin defied him yet again, that smug, condescending lilt to his voice as he delivered his parting words before walking away from Martin’s bleeding body. It filled his entire being. He wanted to step forward then and there and end it all, to get revenge for Martin, for Tim, for Sasha, for Melanie and Basira and Daisy, for the _world._

But he didn’t. He _couldn’t._ He didn’t feel the static building, couldn’t sense the words waiting on his tongue. He knew what he _wanted_ to say, but even the first time, he’d known the Ceaseless Watcher would give him the right way to say it in the moment, and that wasn’t happening here. It wasn’t time. It must not be time. He’d have to be patient. It was the last thing he wanted to be, but he would have to be.

It was only when Jonah started to turn that Jon realized they now had to figure out how to get out of the tunnels _ahead_ of Jonah, or at least avoid being seen by him.

“Martin,” he whispered, trying to keep his voice as soft as he possibly could. “Can you get us out of here?”

“This way,” Martin answered immediately. He pulled Jon’s hand and started down the tunnels.

They had to hurry, but they also had to stay silent. Jon knew that, but he also knew that Martin would have no idea if they were close to being spotted, so he kept glancing over his shoulder as they moved, checking to see how far back that glow of light was. He could still _see_ it, that was the problem, any time they got on a straight enough bit, there it was, that circle of light presaging the approach of a man who still held the power to destroy everything Jon held dear. Jon had rarely felt more helpless, more _useless,_ than he did in that moment, knowing he was letting a chance to try and take down Jonah Magnus two years early slip through his fingers because he was afraid of failing. Again.

His distraction made him careless. He took a turn too tightly and slammed his shoulder into the corner, and he couldn’t stop the soft grunt of pain. He jammed the heel of his free hand into his mouth, but it was too late. Jonah had heard, if the way he raised the lantern abruptly to the level of his eyes, which were narrowed with sudden intent scrutiny, was any indication.

Shit.

“Come on!” Martin hissed at him, tugging his hand. They picked up the pace, still trying to keep quiet, but Jon wondered if it would matter. Jonah Magnus wasn’t the sort of man to jump at shadows—or was he? No, he wouldn’t suspect he heard something and then decide he was wrong. He _knew_ someone else was down here. They just had to make sure he couldn’t find them, that was the trouble. Or else…well, Jon would have to hope he was wrong about it not being time.

There was a loud creaking noise, and Jon almost jumped out of his skin, but then Martin tugged on him harder and pulled him around a corner. There was a dull thumping sound, too, which Jon tentatively identified as Martin’s back hitting the wall, and then he was wrapped tightly in Martin’s arms again, safe and secure against his chest. He fisted his hands in Martin’s sweater and pressed his face into his shoulder. Martin’s heart thudded frantically, directly under his ear, and Jon could feel his own heartbeat just as rapidly pounding in his own chest. They clung to each other and waited.

Jon heard the creaking noise again and held his breath, pressing closer to Martin, expecting any moment to either be struck with the door—depending on where Martin had positioned them—or discovered. But the noise sounded a bit distant, and when Jon risked a glance up, he could see only the slightest hint of light. They were in another room without a door; Jonah was in the tunnel, and evidently walking past. The light drew closer, paused outside the room, and suddenly got brighter. Jon held his breath and tried to somehow get closer to Martin, praying as he did so that he wasn’t hurting him. Evidently, though, they had managed to position themselves in the one place Jonah couldn’t easily see from the doorway, and their shadows didn’t give them away. He made a small noise that somehow managed to indicate suspicion and relief and disappointment all at once, and then the light lessened and the footsteps faded away.

Jon waited until it was utterly silent once more before he exhaled in a single, shaking breath and sagged against Martin. “Are you all right?” he asked softly.

“I’m fine,” Martin assured him, and Jon believed him. “Are _you_ okay?”

“Shoulder’s a bit sore,” Jon began, then stopped. He knew that wasn’t what Martin meant. “No.”

“Do you want to sit down?”

“N-not here. Let’s…let’s see if we can get back to—closer to the steps.”

“Okay, sure.” Martin brushed his lips against Jon’s cheek.

Now that Jonah was past them, they didn’t have to be as furtive as they’d been before, but they were still cautious. Jon didn’t dare turn on the torch until they were back in the room they’d been staying in—mercifully undisturbed—with the door closed behind them. The instant he did, however, he stepped back into Martin’s arms. Martin leaned against the door and slid down it until they were seated on the floor, curled around each other and Jon more than half in Martin’s lap. They sat for a long moment like that, catching their breath.

“Want to talk about it?” Martin finally asked.

Jon didn’t, not really, but if they didn’t talk about it now, he knew they never would. He sighed heavily and slid off Martin’s lap, then tucked himself up next to him and rested his head on Martin’s shoulder. Martin stroked his shoulder gently as he waited for Jon to speak.

“Jonah,” he said. “He was—he was looking through the tunnels. I-I didn’t know he ever came down here in our time, but…I think he was looking to see how far Past Me got in his explorations. There’s a—a ring of worms—you remember, Tim mentioned it, and I did in my tape, too?”

“I remember.” Martin’s voice was neutral and calm.

“I think—I think that’s the way to the Panopticon. I think Jane Prentiss was trying to get down there, to—to see what the Eye had at its center. Obviously we’ll never know for sure. I got there when I was doing my explorations, but I don’t think Past Me has. And Tim and Sasha didn’t mention seeing it…I don’t know.” Jon swallowed. “But I-I could see his face, I could…all I could think about was everything he did to us. Not telling us about Sasha, letting Tim suffer just to make my suffering worse. Torturing Melanie, trapping Basira, blackmailing Daisy. Framing me for murder, trying to isolate me, making everything I went through as painful as he could. Using me to end the world. God, everything he did to _you._ His face when he—” He broke off and pressed his cheek against Martin’s shoulder, grounding himself, reminding himself that Martin was _there_ and alive. He’d survived. They both had. Jonah Magnus hadn’t succeeded in taking _everything_ Jon loved away from him, despite his best efforts. “I wanted to kill him.”

Martin’s arm tightened around Jon’s shoulders, and Jon felt the gentle pressure of his kiss on the top of his head. “But you didn’t.”

“No.” Jon exhaled heavily. There was no censure in Martin’s voice, no annoyance, but he still felt a small surge of guilt. “I—I _couldn’t,_ Martin. I wasn’t—the words weren’t there.”

Martin was silent for a moment. Finally, he said, “Well, we _are_ in the tunnels—you’re distanced from the Eye. And if Leitner was anywhere nearby, you might’ve been caught in his…weird little bubble or spell or whatever it was, like with that camera.”

“I know, but—”

“And,” Martin continued, as if Jon hadn’t spoken, “you’re hungry. Don’t try to deny it, I _know_ you. You hadn’t had time to find any statements before Jonah came down, and you probably expended more energy than you should have down there, even if you weren’t using the Eye’s powers to do it. We both knew you were probably going to need to be at full capacity to take him out. I’m not surprised you couldn’t do it right now.”

Jon huffed. “And you’re just… _okay_ with that?”

“Honestly? No. If I’d had a more mundane weapon, I can’t promise I wouldn’t have tried to pull a Melanie on him,” Martin replied. Jon laughed, a bit unwillingly, at the turn of phrase. “You’re not the only one who wants to kill him for everything he’s done, you know. I wanted that even before…you know, the end of the world. All the reasons you said and then some. Like you told the others that first night…I’m not fond of anything that tries to take the people I love away from me, and you’re at the top of that list. But as much as I want him dead, I don’t blame you for not trying if you weren’t sure you could do it.”

“Really?” Jon looked up at Martin. “Because I do. Blame myself, I mean. I should have—”

Martin cut him off with a gentle, tender kiss that bled the tension from Jon’s body and relaxed whatever he had left that passed for a soul. When Martin pulled back, he rested his forehead against Jon’s. “Jon. Our whole plan depends on catching him off-guard. If he knows we’re coming, we’re doomed. And if we don’t take him out the first time, we’ll never get another chance. Eventually we’re going to have to say ‘we won’t get any more ready than this’, but right now’s not that time.”

Jon couldn’t help the wry chuckle that slipped out of his throat. “When did you develop patience?”

“I didn’t. Believe me. I want this over with as much as you do. Maybe more.” Martin’s free hand came up to rub absently at his chest. Jon reached out to cover it, trapping it against the spot directly over the bullet scars. Martin’s heart beat so strongly Jon could feel it even through Martin’s hand. “But the thing about being blind…if you rush, you’re going to fall, unless you know the space really, really well. You’ve got to take your time and be sure you know the way.”

“Or have help.”

“Or have help,” Martin agreed. “I have you. You have me. We’ll figure this out together, Jon. I won’t pretend I’m okay with Jonah still being out there, still…able to mess with their lives, but I _am_ okay with waiting until we’re sure it’ll stick, and not kill anyone else in the process.”

Jon wondered, as he often did, how he’d been so lucky as to have this man in his life, let alone love him this much. “We can do it. I _know_ we can do it. I-it just…wasn’t the right time. I just didn’t want you to think…”

Martin frowned. “Think what? That you’d changed your mind? That you didn’t think he—God, Jon, I know you better than that.”

“I worry,” Jon confessed softly, dropping his head heavily back onto Martin’s shoulder. “Not about what you think of me, I know _you_ better than that, but…I worry that I’ll lose myself so much to the Eye, to the fears, that I’ll…think he’s right. Let him live. Try to come up with another way o-or something like that. My God, he almost _killed_ you right in _front_ of me and—” He broke off and curled tightly into Martin; Martin pulled him into a tight embrace. “I-if I ever got to the point where I could ignore that…”

Martin was silent for a long time. At last, he said in a soft, incredibly serious voice, “Jon. If you ever got to the point where you genuinely believed him, where you’d honestly gone over to his side? I would kill you myself.”

Jon let those words flow through him, let himself seriously examine each one. They were spoken seriously and sincerely. Martin wasn’t joking, wasn’t making a darkly humorous quip or a hyperbolic suggestion. A small pool of fear Jon hadn’t even realized was locked away inside him flooded out in a single, drawn-out sigh.

“Promise?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content warnings:** Mild profanity, slight panic attacks, discussion of death.
> 
> The ending of this chapter is heavily influenced by/shamelessly borrowed from one of the Discworld books by Terry Pratchett (I'm _pretty_ sure it was The Fifth Elephant, but I've only read that one once and my books are about as organized as Gertrude's Archives right now, so I can't immediately page through my collection and find it; it was a conversation between Carrot and Angua and it's stuck with me). I realize some of you don't trust me, but I promise you don't need to worry about it. This is very much a "what-if" conversation and it will absolutely not come to that.

**Author's Note:**

> [Feel free to come yell at me during my somewhat-infrequent appearances on Tumblr.](https://ollieofthebeholder.tumblr.com/) **(UPDATE 1/4/2021:** I now have a new Tumblr URL, so had to update the link!)


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